


The House on Rue des Boulangers

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Frottage, Gardens & Gardening, Happy Ending, Hiding in Plain Sight, Honey, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Living in France, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV John Watson, PTSD John, References to Depression, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: After being invalided out of the army and without any other prospects, John Watson has relocated to a small town in northern France. Now he has to decide what to do for the rest of his life. One morning there's a mad stranger in his garden chasing a swarm of bees, and it seems John's decision is made.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 286
Kudos: 479
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. La Maison du Jardinier

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дом на улице Буланже](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513264) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> This story was written during lockdown. It's something I have been wanting to write for a long time and I've explained it as a love letter to France and to Johnlock. It has a description of a PTSD episode - of which I am lucky enough to have no experience, but as this is a work of fiction (and a happy, fluffy story), I hope you will forgive the creative license. 
> 
> It will be posted in eight chapters - all are written. This is not a WIP. 
> 
> I have to thank Saladscream for giving this the once over for me, and for correcting my French accents. All remaining errors are mine. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. B xxx

“I could have sworn it was on here,” Mme Hudson mutters for the third time. She peers at the offending collection of keys in the light from John’s phone and tuts. 

John summons up a supportive smile from somewhere and grits his teeth. Just a few more minutes and all this will be over. He will be able to breathe again for the first time in months. He just needs to hang on for a few more…

Mme Hudson drops the keys...again… and chuckles at her own clumsiness, and John entertains uncharitable thoughts about the amount of wine the lady might have drunk at dinner.

“Shall I just..?” John offers, but the sprightly old bird stoops to pick them up despite her ‘tricky’ hip before he can shift his cane to his other hand. John gestures at the door and the keys in a manner he hopes isn’t too impatient, but Mme Hudson is already clattering through the collection again.

John struggles to keep his sigh silent and is rewarded with a squawk as she finds something that looks exactly like the last four she has tried. This time, blessedly, she has it right and the lock yields to the turning key. One twist of the handle and the door opens with a dramatic squeak and groan.

“I’ll just show you…” the lady begins.

“No need,” John interrupts and slips past her less politely than he might. “You’ve been so kind, coming out here like this so late. Really, I’m sure I can find my way around from here.”

He has already pulled his duffle inside and is edging the door closed.

“Well, if you’re absolutely certain, dear,” Mme Hudson says doubtfully.

“Absolutely,” John says with a reassuring smile. “I mustn’t keep you out a moment longer than necessary on such a dreary night.”

“I’ll let you get settled in then,” she smiles and passes him the keyring. “I’ll drop around tomorrow, make sure you’ve got everything you need.”

“Thank you. Lovely. Good night, then,” John agrees. He persuades himself to watch her to her car and pull away before he closes the reluctant door with a shove that sets his shoulder jangling with sudden pain.

He stands and breathes stale, undisturbed air for several minutes, first from the ache in his shoulder, but then to appreciate the quiet. The house is not recently built and already it is making its quirks known. There are the sounds of the gale outside - something flapping with an irritating, irregular slap, the chimney whistling along with the wind and the creaks and groans of a house that’s seen decades of weather and wind and weary travellers.

John smiles to himself, tired but finally here. He tries the lightswitch that he locates with the beam from his phone’s torch and isn’t at all surprised when it does nothing. He finds his way upstairs and chooses the nearest room with a bed in it. Dropping his bag, he rummages until he finds his old service pistol hidden under the removable base and shoves it under the pillow. He lays down fully clothed on top of the quilt, asleep before he remembers he should take his tablets.

>>><<<

John regrets it the next morning. His shoulder is stiff, his leg aches shrilly enough to be able to feel it in every part of his body, and the house is bloody freezing. He rolls off the bed carefully and fumbles in his duffle bag until he finds the blister pack of painkillers and half a bottle of water from yesterday to swallow a couple down with. He opens doors until he discovers a bathroom, checks the lightswitch and washes in cold water (so there are at least some utilities still working in the place), changes his clothes for the warmest things he can muster and limps down the stairs.

The view through the large glass door between the kitchen and the garden is a study in grey and brown. Harry only gave John a brief description of the house and its surroundings - John wasn’t really interested in the particulars at the time. The offer to live in his sister’s French holiday house has been a godsend. Home from Afghanistan for four months, John has been living in a soul-destroying bedsit provided by a grateful nation. He has no money other than his army pension, no job nor much prospect of finding one as damaged as he is and his only family is his alcoholic sister who is currently grinding through an awful divorce from her wife, Clara. 

Clearly the house in Saint Barthélemy Le Vieux is one of the victims of his sister’s marital problems, a relic of happier days. They had bought it full of optimism and plans for their future but no one had visited in over a year, and the view from the kitchen testifies to that. Once it might have been a productive, well-tended garden but now it is a weed-choked wasteland without any hint of the love and expectation it was started with. 

John thanks his stars that the house, at least, has been kept up. It is basic and a little rough around the edges and it lacks the attention to detail that second homes sometimes do - although furnished, it’s clear that no one has lived here for a long time. But it is his home now and for the foreseeable future - provided Clara doesn’t claim it from the wreckage of their marriage or they sell it by rare mutual consent. 

Christ! John is doing a better job of depressing himself than the miserable sight of the garden is. He gives himself a shake and goes off in search of the main electrical switch panel to see if the lack of power is an internal problem or one he will need help with. 

An hour later and with a cup of coffee in his hand, John decides to take stock of his new digs with a self-guided tour. He persuades the front door to open, overcoming its reluctance to comply with brute force and determination. He looks out into the garden surrounding the house. It had been too dark to see very much last night when Mme Hudson had driven him to the property from the local town. She was the local contact Harry had given him, who kept an eye on the place when they were not there and it was just as well she had insisted on driving him; John would never have found this tucked away road from the address that his sister had given him. 

The house is on the road out of Saint Barthélemy Le Vieux, which officially stops where the town’s houses end, but the road name persists all the way out to Harry and Clara’s property by dint of it not having any other name. Set back from the Rue des Boulangers, La Maison du Jardinier sits in the middle of the plot, built of stone, rendered and whitewashed in the local style. Harry and Clara seem to have spent money on the fabric of the house as the windows are all in good nick and the paintwork is clean and recent. He’s told that the house was once part of the local estate which would explain the garden. On the side of the house nearest the road, the land is laid to lawn, or was once. It is thigh-high in brown grasses and withered weeds which sway fitfully in the lingering wind this morning. An old wall runs part way along the boundary and John can see overgrown branches and brambles climbing up covering most of it. In the shelter of the wall lies the fruit and vegetable garden - and it was clearly once a sight to behold. John can make out gravel paths now matted with weeds, and defined beds that have since been overrun. But it’s the orchard that draws his steps. The trees are dormant so early in the year, but there are many, and John can tell from here that there is more than one type of fruit represented. There seems to be a path that winds through the trees off towards the boundary of the property and John ignores the dew which is soaking through his shoes and into his socks to follow it. 

There’s no fence or wall but it’s obvious where his sister’s property ends and his neighbour’s begins. On his side the long grass is studded with last year’s spoiled fallen fruit, branches blown down and drifts of leaves wherever something impedes their progress. On the other, the grass is mowed and tidy, the flowerbeds are dug and weed-free, and stands of ornamental trees are dotted about in aesthetically pleasing groups. It’s a bit embarrassing how both of these areas purport to be gardens and John feels a twinge of guilt about whoever has to endure the sight of their attempt.

The neighbour’s garden is huge, and John vaguely recalls Mrs Hudson explaining that Harry’s house backs on to the property of the local manor house. John can’t see any sign of said house, but there is a man in the distance, striding around the grounds. John imagines that the manor employs a team of gardeners to manage the upkeep of the estate and wonders whether this is one of them. He lifts a hand to wave although it’s too far to see if the figure is looking at him, so John doesn’t feel too badly when his gesture is ignored.

His mug now empty, John turns back to the house, content with this morning’s discoveries such as they are. There’s only so much grey and brown a man can take under an uncompromising gunmetal sky.

>>><<<

By the time Mme Hudson arrives at lunch time, John has got a fire burning in the stove, has changed his socks for dry ones and is taking stock of the dry goods left over in the kitchen from summers past. He’s wondering whether one can eat tinned haricot beans with Marmite. Or whether it’s worth bothering at all.

“Yoohoo!” she calls, letting herself into the house through the kitchen doors, reminding John that he hadn’t even checked the doors were locked last night. 

The lady arrives laden down with baskets and bread and bottles. She manages to get everything onto the kitchen table without disaster and turns to kiss John on both cheeks as if she hasn’t just performed such gymnastics. 

“Oh, you’ve got the fire going already. Lovely. There’s nothing better to make a place feel a bit more homely, is there?”

John is still a bit bewildered by the entrance and the kissing. 

“Mme Hudson, what is all this?” He tries a smile to soften the inelegant words but she doesn’t seem to have noticed for which John is grateful. He seems to struggle to remember social graces since his return from Afghanistan. It hasn’t been a problem since he’s only been interacting with his sister and with his therapist whose job it is to help him with issues of that sort anyway. But Mme Hudson is a different case; he’s spent only half an hour in her company so far, but her good heart was apparent after only two minutes and he’d hate her to think that her kindness had been misplaced. 

“It’s market day in Rebon and I guessed that you’d sleep in, being as exhausted as you were last night and as I was going anyway, I thought I’d pick up some basics for you until you had time to sort yourself out a little bit.” 

As she chatters away her hands are busy, putting things in cupboards, switching on the fridge at the socket and filling the crisper with salad, and laying the table for two. She leaves the bread, a couple of wrapped cheeses and one of the bottles of wine on the table while she hunts down some glasses. 

John finds himself sitting down a moment later across from Mme Hudson with his plate and glass filled, listening to the intricate life stories of half the village; who is to be trusted and who sells second rate fruit, who is courting whom and whose home extensions have been paid for with dishonest dealings. His mind reels for the first few minutes until he realises that he’s not expected to remember any of this and he can relax into the rhythm of the tittletattle, nodding when Mme Hudson seems to require his input. He eats some delicious cheese with a name he doesn’t recognise, drinks some very passable wine and is just congratulating himself on this successful interaction when Mme Hudson pauses for breath and brings the contented feelings to a screeching halt. 

“So how about you, then? Your sister only told me you’d be arriving on Tuesday or I’d have been in to make the place a bit more welcoming. Of course, they didn’t use the place last year. Such a pity about those two, they seemed so happy.”

John agrees that it is sad but doesn’t tell Mme Hudson that he cannot find it in him to fault Clara for calling it a day knowing how his sister gets when she’s drunk. In some ways he’s amazed that she stuck it out for as long as she did. He hopes that his sister’s marriage might deflect the direction of the conversation but Mme Hudson is tenacious.

“She said you're an army doctor?”

“Was,” John corrects. “I was injured in Afghanistan and invalided out of service.” He finishes the wine in his glass and looks away, hoping that the topic will drop.

“Oh, that’s terrible. That would explain the cane. So you’re here to recuperate then?”

John shrugs and nods - it’s as good an answer as any. He doesn’t feel the truth will satisfy Mme Hudson any more than it did his therapist or his sister, or indeed himself. He’s here because he has nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. Here he can avoid the well-meaning attentions of his sister, live rent-free in return for maintenance of the house and garden, and possibly stretch his meagre pension with whatever he can persuade to grow to eat here on the property. He speaks only the rudimentary French he learned at school and this is another reason he accepted his sister’s offer. Without having the necessary linguistic skills he imagines that he won’t be invited to many meals with sympathetic locals.

Clearly he had not anticipated Mme Hudson, an expat whose heart is as big as her unintentional intrusiveness. 

“Well, a few months of being here will sort you out, I’m sure. It’s not for everybody, mind - a bit quiet if you know what I mean. Restful, you know?”

Restful sounds like exactly what John is looking for.

Mme Hudson is gone as quickly as she came, waiving off money for the groceries and disappearing in a spray of gravel. John is left with a list of local market days, telephone numbers for doctors, dentists, plumbers and electricians, churches of all denominations and the bank in the nearest town. He has directions to the best charcuterie, the post office and the telephone number of Le Manoir de Saint Barthélemy who own the land adjoining his sister’s. 

He adds the list to a pile of random post that sits on the counter in the kitchen and forgets all about it.

>>><<<


	2. The Garden

The month rolls over into March and other than another quick visit from Mme Hudson early on with a message from Harry which goes along the lines of - **Are you still alive?** \- and - **Charge your bloody phone!** \- John has been left pretty much to his own devices, which is exactly how he likes it. He moved bedrooms after a couple of nights, trying to avoid the cockerel that is convinced that dawn is two full hours before the sun comes up, but other than that he has yet to really make his mark on any room in the house, content to exist in the space as his sister had left it. His life begins to settle into a routine and John tells himself he’s happy about this. He gets up, he reads trashy novels that he finds on the bookshelves in the sitting room, and he watches the weather roll across more shades of brown, grey and dull green than he has names for. The clouds are a permanent fixture, the temperature hovers a few degrees above freezing and the wind adds variety only in the strength at which it blows each day; brisk breeze, howling gale or bone-chilling gusts with rain squalls. He and the garden seem to have reached an impasse. John glowers at it and the garden ignores him. 

He’s taken to walking into the village for supplies every few days, timing his visits for the least busy periods so he can get in, get what he needs and get out again with the minimum human contact. He’s hardly inconspicuous with his limp and his dreadful command of the language, and already the bakery staff nod at him in recognition when he enters the shop. On the days that he doesn’t need to restock, John walks out from the house in whatever direction speaks to him that day. He concedes that it isn’t a quirk of his sister’s land that it resists the urge of the oncoming spring because it seems as if the whole or this corner of France is dormant and unaware of the calendar marching on.

More often than not his walks will take him past the extensive lands around the Manoir. He often catches sight of the same tall, dark haired figure who appears to spend much of his time in the grounds. It’s become a matter of principle to wave to him- although John supposes it could be a her - although he has yet to receive any kind of response.

Each evening when he goes to bed, John decides that tomorrow will be the day that he sits down and really begins to think about how the rest of his life should look - that’s a big part of the reason he came. He appears to have come out of the war with some life left to live, so he ought to do something about that. He hasn’t quite managed to put his gun further away at night than his bedside drawers, but that’s more of a security measure than it has been in a while. He’s not an old man yet despite the cane and the attitude. Perhaps he could be useful and productive - he just needs to find the right direction to channel his energies to make that happen. And yet John finds that each day is swallowed up in the minutiae of living it, and evening comes around again ready for him to decide that tomorrow will be different. 

One morning John is returning from his walk when he sees the person from the Manoir at the bottom of the orchard. Curious enough to make a detour, John walks around the perimeter of the garden to get a closer look. Sure enough, the figure is male although John can’t really see much of the man’s face which is shaded by the brim of a straw hat screwed down over dark curls. John lingers, watching as the man paces out areas of his grass and scribbles things in a small notebook. He kneels down and closely observes the ground, leaning back to squint up at nearby trees and the cloud-obscured sun. He picks blades of grass and rubs pinches of soil between his fingers, and John wonders if perhaps the man is a little neurodivergent - his behaviour certainly seems quite hyper-focussed. 

“Good Morning,” John calls, surprising himself.

The man's shoulders seem to drop in disappointment as he half turns and glances at John standing not more than fifteen metres away. John gets the impression of fiercely intelligent eyes in the glimpse he gets. The man simply grunts, gets to his feet and stalks off in the opposite direction.

John nods to himself and considers that they will get along admirably, him and this antisocial neighbour. In fact he feels ashamed for being the first one to give in to social niceties. Yes, they can ignore each other quite adequately. 

As he turns back toward the house he hears a vehicle slow, turn up the drive and stop outside. Rationally he knows that there is no threat but his mind has to send his pulse skyrocketing first and for a few seconds he is painfully and literally frozen with fear. His leg throbs and threatens to buckle under him and he has to force his breath to calm. With great determination he sets his feet on a path toward the sounds and when he eventually gets to the front door there is a woman in a blue uniform standing beside a yellow van with _La Poste_ emblazoned on the side. Even John can translate that one. 

She starts to talk to him, but after the initial exchanges of ‘ _Bonjour_ ’, John is lost. Whatever it is she is saying, it seems to involve him signing for a large box with his sister’s London address on it in case of return. At least that’s what he hopes he signed. The post lady seems content, so he waves her off.

Bringing the package indoors, after swearing at the sticking door, he places it on the table. Harry’s writing is large and loopy and already irritating. He sits for a minute or two, preparing himself for what cheerful, upbeat gesture the box might contain - his sister is one of those people who is convinced that all a person with mental health issues needs is for others to be extra enthusiastic around them. As Harry no longer has Clara around to dilute her forceful personality, John has borne the full brunt of Harry’s helpfulness over the last few months and he’s exhausted by it. He just wants to feel nothing; to feel numb until he has a better option. He thought that here he might be able to achieve that. He’s tried to explain that depression and PTSD aren’t things that you can solve with willpower alone, but in the face of her own unmanageable struggles, she has decided that she needs to fix him. He loves Harry in that half dutiful, half genuine way that siblings do as they get older, but she can no more save John he can save her - it doesn’t stop her trying though.

He takes a resigned breath before slicing into the tape and uncovering her latest scheme. He reaches in and retrieves books, but it’s not psychological claptrap this time - these are gardening books aimed at beginners and those interested in self-sufficiency. Beneath that are many packets of seeds, a trowel, a fork and some tools he doesn’t even know the name of let alone the reason for. There are tags, string, seed trays and plastic cloches, a journal to record his planting and some wicked looking secateurs. 

John looks out of the kitchen doors to the garden beyond, a tangle of weeds and brambles and neglect. It’s been raining on and off during the night and when it hasn’t been raining, it’s been blowing a gale. John has no more plans today than to walk further than the wood store to keep the woodburner fed. 

He drops the books back into the box, closes the whole thing up and takes it into the strange little room at the back of the house that seems to be a laundry, cloakroom and shed all in one. He dumps the box on the rickety table there and closes the door firmly behind him as he leaves.

>>><<<

The following week March begins to loosen its dreary grasp on the countryside as April draws nearer. John cannot quite believe that he has been at La Maison du Jardinier for seven weeks. It’s true, he is sleeping better than he was in London and all the walking is having a beneficial effect on his limp. The grey skies don’t clear completely, but they feel less oppressive. It seems that spring is going to arrive after all, at least so far as the thermometer rising is concerned.

The garden is beginning to show the first inkling of life and John has noticed birds and insects beginning to stir as the light lingers longer in the evenings. The beds seem to have a new crop of weeds to gift him with and the hedges around the property have a mist of fresh colour as buds begin to swell and burst. Each day it is stronger and greener.

One morning John wakes to a sky that is unbroken blue in every direction and something inside him knows how those hedgerows feel. Coffee in hand, he steps out of the kitchen doors and the air, while still brisk and chilly feels more sympathetic, as if it might be swayed. The robin’s egg blue above is a fragile thing that encourages John to take a walk around the beds. The apple trees trained against the stone walls have tightly furled blossoms, white blushed with pink, and between the grass and weeds there are blue-green shoots, dark and purposeful.

John finishes his coffee, takes a deep breath and marches back into the house. He finds an old notepad and a biro and sits down at the kitchen table to draw a rough outline of the garden with the beds and the trees he can identify and the rosemary that has spread unchecked and the places where the paths have been obscured by weeds and he can only tell that there used to be one there by the solid feel of the ground underfoot.

When he looks up from his work he finds he has lost an entire morning. He’s had no breakfast or lunch and his coffee mug is on the window ledge where he left it when he came in earlier. John looks back down to his pad to find that he has filled pages with notated plans, lists of potential plants, a shopping list for the things he will need and a to do list. He blinks at it and smiles before the ache in his back, the pressure in his bladder and the gurgle of his stomach persuade him to call it a day.

That night he calls his sister unprompted and if they happen to touch on the whereabouts of the spades and garden forks and pots and garden supply shops, John doesn’t make a big deal of it. It wouldn’t do to encourage Harry’s meddling.

The weather not only holds clear for the next few days, but it blooms into a sweet and gentle warmth. John wears his jacket out into the garden each morning and has to discard it earlier each day. He clears the central path through the kitchen garden with a hoe and a rake that might have been here since the war. He’s found an Aladdin’s cave of tools and ancient terracotta pots in a greenhouse that has been hidden beneath vines and brambles. 

His days begin to grow a pattern. He eats an early breakfast and watches the daylight creep across the property until the kitchen garden is bathed in sun when he pulls on a jumper and his jacket and boots and goes out to do battle with whichever bed has caught his attention that morning. He hoes and weeds and turns the soil, he works around things he recognises (raspberry canes, gooseberries and some kind of plum) and prunes the plants that are overgrown. He barrows what he’s cleared to the compost or to the bonfire he has begun to construct for the thicker branches and the brambles. 

At lunch time he sits on the step at the kitchen door and surveys his handiwork while he chews on a sandwich and drinks his tea. If his leg or shoulder aches too badly he will call it a day and put away his tools. Then he will go into the little room where the box from Harry was dumped, which has since become a nursery for trays of seeds, and read about the best plants for shady areas or the best time to plant spinach.

He locks up each night, aching and tired and looks over the garden, watching the moonlight lay upon the work he has done. In four days he has cleared and turned three of the eight large beds and freed the south facing wall of the choking bramble and ivy that had all but smothered the trees that grow there.

It’s the strangest sensation that accompanies him to his bed at night. He’s not happy - it’s too soon to call this fledgling feeling happiness - but he feels not unhappy, and that in itself is an amazing thing, he thinks.

He wakes on the fifth morning after another night of deep, dreamless sleep. The sun is already well up and it’s warm through the thin cotton curtains. He’s taken to leaving the shutters open the last few nights, loving the scent of the turned soil and the sound of the birds at sunrise, other than the cockerel, of course. He can hear insects already and decides to lie for a few minutes and relish having plans for the day. He stretches and yawns, recognises the subtle aches of well-used muscles and the slight tightness of the skin of his face where the sun has begun to bring out freckles already. 

There’s a scraping and a muttering outside that interrupts John’s introspection and his body overreacts to the surprise with a rush of adrenaline and the sickly taste of fear at the back of his throat. His hands trembling, John gets out of bed and crosses to the window, peering cautiously around the curtain as he tries to breathe calmly.

Down in the garden, the tall man from the Manoir is standing with his back to the house contemplating one of the trees John worked on yesterday. He has on a long, blue coat that looks too expensive to be in John’s garden, tidy or not, and a pair of shiny leather shoes that probably cost more than the coat did. Unfortunately the man in the inappropriate wardrobe choices is stamping around in the bed that John seeded with leeks two days ago, with forays into the potato trenches that John prepared yesterday for planting once his seed potatoes had chitted. 

Incensed, John pulls on jeans and a jumper and forces his feet into his trainers without wasting time with laces. He hurries down the stairs, fights briefly with the front door which cedes to him with a resounding shriek of warped wood and strides up to the idiot standing in his vegetable beds.

“Excuse me?” John begins sounding none too pleased.

The man doesn’t even turn to look at him, simply lifts an imperious finger in the internationally understood gesture for wait.

John’s blood pressure spikes. “Listen mate, I’m happy to wait, but if you’d care to move off my bloody beds in the meantime, I’d be much obliged.”

The man still doesn’t turn. Instead he shushes John and waves him away.

“Right,” John snarls then catches sight of exactly what it is that the man is watching. 

Hanging, like a misshapen fruit from one of the apple tree branches is a seething , black, buzzing mass. There are a few bees flying orbits around the cluster, but mostly they huddle close together, climbing over one another in a frenzy of activity.

“Oh shit!” John breathes.

The tall man seems to have brought a wooden crate with him and he reaches down gracefully and picks it up now. He edges it toward John slowly and carefully, and gabbles something at him in a voice that sounds commanding.

John takes the box, his eyes wide as he watches the man inch closer to the group with a pair of secateurs. John has seen people handle bees before on TV but they have always worn strange, veiled hats, gauntlets and protective overalls. This maniac hasn’t even got a pair of gloves on. He mutters again and it sounds important.

“Um, I don’t speak French and don’t you think you should perhaps…”

The man graces John with an irritated, disgusted look and sighs. Loudly.

“Come closer and hold the box beneath the swarm,” he directs.

“Errrr, isn’t that going to get me stung?” John asks, quite reasonably in his opinion.

“Not if you don’t behave like an idiot. Move slowly and calmly and you will be fine.”

The man’s voice is deep, perfectly modulated and doesn’t hold even a hint of a French accent. John instinctively moves to comply with the request before he has time to consider that he probably shouldn’t trust a man who is in his garden before breakfast, armed with sharp objects and trying to persuade a football sized clump of bees to get in a box while destroying all his hard work in the process. 

By the time John’s thoughts have crystalised into something coherent, he is already in position holding a large wooden box beneath the seething mass of insects.

Stepping to John’s left, the persuasive git makes final adjustments to John’s positioning, then grasps the branch the swarm is attached to. With a swift snip, he severs the branch from the tree and gently lowers the bees into the box. Miraculously he seems to be right; the bees seem scarcely to notice their change in location.

“Bring it over here,” the man says quietly, moving a few paces back onto the path. John follows and lowers the box down where indicated, and they both step away.

“Now what?”

“Now we wait for the stragglers,” tall and fearless replies. And sure enough there is a steady flow of bees, calmly adding themselves to the mass in the box.

The man is smiling, his unusual eyes sparkling as he looks around, watching the returning insects join the group and John catches himself staring at him wondering what colour such unusual eyes are up close. He’s very slim and that makes him look taller than he really is, even though it’s still five or six inches taller than John, but he's used to that.

After a few minutes, the flow slows to isolated bees and the man produces a lid from behind him. He carefully lines it up and lets it drop down gently over the swarm. Crouching down, he grasps the handles on each side that John had not even noticed and lifts the entire box before striding off in the direction of the orchard and the garden of the Manoir. 

“So that’s it, is it?” John calls, suddenly remembering his irritation at this lanky, pompous madman.

The man pauses and turns slightly. “Problem?” he asks with a quirked eyebrow.

John is speechless. He lifts his hands indicating his wrecked beds, his mutilated tree and, he hopes, the fact that he’s had a strange man invade his privacy before he’s even had time for a cup of bloody tea. 

With bees. 

He looks him up and down in a way that makes John’s skin prickle and get hot. “Give your therapist a call and cancel your next appointment. You clearly won’t be needing their services anymore.” He quirks half a smile at John’s blink of surprise. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. The address is Le Manoir de Saint Barthélemy. Good morning!” Posh and pretty winks at him… bloody _winks_ at him and resumes his long-legged stalk back home. 

John stands and fumes for a minute, surveying the damage the enormous idiot has done as he considers the crack about the therapist. How can he have possibly known about that? It’s about then that he realises that his hated walking cane is still standing beside his bed upstairs. 

He cranes his neck to try and catch a last glimpse of his extraordinary neighbour through the trees but he’s already gone.

And, right on cue, now his leg is aching too.

>>><<<


	3. The Honey Room

It takes John much of the morning to put right the damage M. Holmes has done but the irritation soon wears off into a weird kind of fascination. He sits on his step at lunchtime eating his sandwich and wonders what kind of a man wears dress shoes in a garden. He clears an old bed of thistle-like things, now desiccated and rough and asks himself where a name like Sherlock comes from. Is it his first name or part of a double-barrelled surname? He replaces a few glass panes in the dilapidated greenhouse he’s beginning to uncover from beneath the overgrown vine and considers what M. Holmes’s first language might be as he seemed equally willing to insult him in either. 

By the time he falls into bed that night John has gone all the way around and is back to being irritated again. Who does Holmes think he is, roaming all over other people’s property and making scarily accurate pronouncements about people he has never met before? And then winking at them? Cheeky bastard. 

>>><<<

When John wakes the next morning and looks out of his window, all is peaceful down in the garden and he’s irritated with himself for feeling a little disappointed by that. Stepping out after breakfast there is a jar standing outside the kitchen door. The label on it is professionally printed, green and gold with the words _Produit du Manoir de Saint Barthélemy._ John recognises the word for honey in the smaller text line _Miel de Ronce_ but has no idea what a _ronce_ is. When he picks it up there’s a slip of paper beneath it; a handwritten note that reads ‘With my compliments, SH.’

John holds the jar up to the sunlight, and admires the amber, almost reddish tint of the contents before he unscrews the lid and cautiously takes a sniff. It’s not like anything else John has ever smelled. It reminds him slightly of wild flowers and of hot days of exploring in the woods when he was a boy; the sweetness is a subtle afterthought. He dips a little finger in the creamy honey and sucks it into his mouth. It’s flavour is also surprising, he finds it hard to name - but it’s delicate and it lingers on his tongue long after he has swallowed. 

As apologies go, he’s had worse ones.

>>><<<

Leaving the bakery later that morning, John meets Mme Hudson who is on her way in. She changes course to kiss John’s cheeks, and ask how he is getting on.

“Fine, thanks,” John nods. “Been working in the garden a bit. Enjoying the sunshine.”

“Oh, lovely,” Mme Hudson beams as if John has just brought her the best news. “Not too isolated up there for you, is it? I hate to think of you stuck out there feeling lonely.”

“No, not lonely. Enjoying the peace and quiet mostly.”

“Mostly?”

John feels a surprising smile break across his face completely without his sanction. “I met my neighbour yesterday.”

“Oh god,” Mme Hudson breathes, half amused and half horrified. She covers her cheek with her hand. She has clearly had dealings with the posh twit before. “What has he done now?” 

“He chased a swarm of bees into my garden and stomped all over my prepared beds and seeds trying to catch them.”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Mme Hudson coos.

“Hm, well he left me a jar of honey to say sorry.”

“Sorry? Sherlock? Are you sure?” Mme Hudson seems genuinely perplexed. “That doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Well, it came with a note and the Manoir’s label on it.”

“Well,” Mme Hudson huffs and looks quite pleased for some reason. “He does produce some lovely honey. He sells it to restaurants and hotels all over France - very sought after it is. Very expensive. You must have made quite the impression on him.”

John is a little bit thrilled and more nonplussed by this, and Mme Hudson pats him on the arm by way of a goodbye and disappears into the bakery.

When John gets home he puts on the kettle and breaks the end off his bread. He slices it open and scrapes on a little butter, then smears a spoonful of the dark honey across the top. It’s creamy in texture and looks like red gold against the snowy white bread. He takes a bite, unable to wait for his tea to brew and closes his eyes as the sweetness bursts across his tongue like the dappled sunshine that warms the ground beneath a tree in leaf. 

John is hooked instantly.

>>><<<

Eight days later John scrapes the last smears of honey from under the neck of the jar. He’s never been much of a fan of the stuff, but somehow this taste has become something that is an integral part of his new life in France. It’s a complex flavour that develops in his mouth even after he has swallowed. It’s not sickly, you have to work for the sweetness twisted in among the other flavours, woody and warm and berry. He’s taken to eating it for breakfast everyday and even stirring a spoonful of it into his tea when he’s feeling hedonistic. But he must have been hitting it harder than he thought considering that the jar is now undoubtedly bare.

The garden is coming along nicely. His hands have new calluses on the palms and his back has a pleasant ache in it in the evenings, the warmth of hard work and used muscles rather than anything problematic. Even his leg has been improving after Holmes’s quip about the therapist. He’s cleared enough of the beds to produce a good quantity of fruits and veggies this summer - he could clear more and start thinking about planting for later in the year, but that feels presumptuous and too soon. He doesn’t like to plumb the reasons for his resistance to forward planning too deeply.

So John could go and do some jobs in the garden this morning, but there is nothing that is urgent - he’s waiting on seedlings to harden off. He could go into town and pick up a few bits and pieces of shopping, but again he’s not desperate for anything. But what he could do is go out for a walk, and while he’s out, if he happens to be passing, maybe he could pop into the Manoir and thank Holmes for the honey and find out how much another jar might cost. He has thirty Euros in his wallet - surely that will be enough. 

John pops his plate and cup in the sink for later and grabs his jacket. As he walks into the hallway he passes a big ornate mirror and pauses. He showered this morning and brushed his teeth, but his hair is a little shaggy and his shirt has seen better days. He returns upstairs to his room and spends a minute changing into a smarter shirt and trying to comb his hair into something less obviously in need of a trim. 

A bit happier with his appearance, John steps out and follows the quiet roads that take him to the front gate of the Manoir de Saint Barthélemy. Squaring his shoulders he walks through them and starts up the driveway. He feels rather exposed and a little foolish walking up to the property. The grounds are extensive and well kept and the house isn’t even visible from the road. He wonders briefly if he’s going to have hounds set upon him then smirks at his own wild imagination. It is a bit imposing though. There are stands of trees and a large pond (small lake?) in the distance. The property on this side seems to stretch away as far as the wooded hillsides and the crunch of his feet and his cane on the gravel of the drive seem very small in comparison to the size of the grounds. 

The Manoir itself finally comes into view as he rounds a small copse of trees and John is no architecture buff, but it is a very handsome building. It’s clearly old and built of buff stone with tall windows all painted in a chalky grey. The second floor has Juliet balcony railings to cover the bottom half of each window and there are smaller windows built under dormers into the roof. A second range of buildings stands to one side of the main house that look as if they may have been agricultural in use - they have the gentle effect of enclosing the space and making it feel protected. The drive curves all the way up to the front of the property and there’s a lawn with modest topiary bushes. There are no coats of arms, no sweeping flights of steps; it’s not a chateau with turrets and a moat which is what John was partially expecting. Although undoubtedly expensive and ancient, it looks almost homely in the bright spring sunshine. 

John is about to go and knock on the most likely looking door but out of the corner of his eye he spots movement off to the side of the house. He diverts to follow as a figure disappears around behind a bed planted with something tall and dried out at this time of year. He recognises the battered old straw hat which is all he can now see of the person. 

“Hello? Mr Holmes?” John calls trying to catch up.

The hat stops and pauses, then slowly comes back the other way and around the corner of the bed along with a slightly irritated man. John is distracted again by the changing colour of the man’s eyes and how very high his cheekbones are. John recalls how tall and slender he is, but he’s surprisingly pale for a man who spends so much time out of doors. He’s got full lips and a distinguished nose, and while he’s not classically handsome, John defies anyone to deny that he is a striking looking man.

Holmes has a frown on his face and he looks at John as if he’s never seen another human being before. He’s wearing a shirt with the sleeves folded back and a pair of dark blue fitted trousers as well as the strangely out of character hat. John’s not surprised that he thought that the figure in the Manoir’s garden was elderly when he first noticed him. He dresses so formally for being outside and the hat has to have belonged to a Holmes ancestor once upon a time. 

John decides to press on anyway. 

“Hello! Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” John ventures with a careful smile. Does the man not remember him from only a week ago?

“Bien sûr, mais ça n’a pas d’importance,” Holmes replies, then seeing John’s uncomprehending blink, he sighs. “Really, no French at all?”

John just shrugs.

“I said that you are, but don’t pay it any mind.”

That’s not what people are supposed to say, even if it’s true. John licks his lips - a habit of his when he’s at a bit of a loss and that he can’t seem to shake.

“Right,” he says, “Well, I can come back another…”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John can’t help it, he turns to look behind himself, just to make sure that he is the second person in this deeply bizarre conversation. Apparently he is, as there is no one else around. 

“Sorry, what?”

“Your injury? Was it sustained in Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Uh, Afghanistan,” John says, sounding like an imbecile. “Sorry, how do you know…?”

“Oh please, your posture screams military, your hair is growing out of a regulation length cut; you were recently invalided out of the armed forces after being injured in the line of duty. Where are the current active war zones in which the British are deployed? Afghanistan or Iraq.” 

John narrows his eyes at Holmes. “Have you been talking to Mme Hudson?”

“You know Hudders?” Holmes asks, slightly taken aback. 

“Look, can we start again please?” John pleads, feeling increasingly out of his depth. 

Holmes shrugs and looks supremely unconcerned. John takes that as a yes.

“Mr Holmes…”

“Sherlock, please,” he interrupts almost immediately.

“Oh, thank you, right. I’m John Watson - you probably already know that. Anyway, I wanted to come round and thank you for the jar of honey you left. It was delicious.”

“Ah, bramble honey. Yes, it’s not to everyone’s taste but I wondered if you might like it.”

“I did, very much. I wondered if I might be able to buy another jar, if you have any left?”

Holmes… Sherlock looks at him again, as if he’s some sort of specimen. He bites his bottom lip and frowns for long enough for John to begin to become uncomfortable. Just when John is about to apologise and make good his escape, Sherlock inhales through his nose and agrees.

“All right then.”

Sherlock stalks off without waiting and walks back to the house with John trailing along in his wake. John rounds the corner of the house just in time to see him disappearing into one of the doors on the buildings to the side of the house. He follows him through the door and out of the bright sunshine. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the change, but after a moment he is confronted with a large, whitewashed room with modern stainless steel equipment on one side and on the other shelves and shelves of different honeys. There are some already in boxes on the floor and a counter full of labelled jars waiting to be packed but against the wall the jars are all unlabelled other than hand written stickers. They range from the palest of primrose yellows through greenish tinted jars and every shade of gold to the darkest jars that look like burned sugar and caramel.

Removing his hat, he drops it at the end of the bench revealing the dark curls that John remembers. “How about something different this time,” Sherlock says, almost to himself as he peruses the jars. He pulls down one or two and gives them a quick sniff before closing them and returning them to the shelf. 

“What are your thoughts on chestnuts, Mr Watson?” Sherlock asks, running his long fingers lightly over the jars.

“It’s Doctor, actually but please call me John.”

Sherlock spins on his heel and regards John with something like delight. “Ahhhhh, Doctor! Of course! There’s always something,” he exclaims and turns back to the jars, diving to the opposite end of the wall. “That would explain the calluses. Surgeon?”

John feels completely out of his depth in this conversation, as if just when he thinks it’s getting more comprehensible it veers off into the weird and wonderful again. “Uh, yes,” he says slowly.

“Of course. Of course. Small hands. New calluses. So where were you actually shot? I mean, it’s clearly not your leg despite the limp.”

“Shoulder,” John admits, surprising himself. “The leg is psychosomatic.”

“Hence, the hopefully ex-therapist,” Sherlock agrees and spins around with two jars in his hands. He puts them on the counter and opens them. Taking a small wooden spatula from a jug on the shelf he scoops out a dollop of a clear, dark liquid gold and holds it out to John. 

John smells it cautiously. It’s got a distinctive scent that isn’t immediately sweet, much like the bramble honey. He bravely takes the spatula from the waiting madman and pops it into his mouth. It’s not sweet at all at first - it’s earthy and nutty and not at all what he was expecting.

Sherlock says nothing, watching his reaction then turns to pick a new spatula and take a scoop from the second jar, a much paler offering. John breathes it in and smells floral, herbal and medicine notes. The flavour is brighter than the other two he has tried. He can still taste the herb notes, but there’s a dried fruit element that is delicious. 

Sherlock nods and screws the jar closed, passing it to John who still hasn’t said a word. 

“Thyme,” he explains shortly.

“Right,” John agrees, still licking the sweetness off his lips. “Did you make all of these?” he asks conversationally.

“Most of them,” Sherlock says, looking at his collection . “There are some that require very specific conditions that I can’t replicate here. Those I have to buy in from other apiarists.”

“To sell?”

“To study, John. It’s fascinating,” Sherlock explains, his hands gesturing as he speaks. He looks truly animated for the first time since the bee catching incident. “The combinations of nectar and pollen or honeydews, the effect of the weather, the health of the colony, all these things make a huge difference to the honey produced.”

“I suppose it would, I’ve never thought about it before,” John agrees, finally feeling that they are having a conversation as he understands them. “Have you been doing this for a long time then?” he asks, watching the jars as the sunlight seems to make them glow. “You’re not from here, are you? Your French sounds amazing to me, but your English accent can’t be a second language…”

Sherlock straightens up and turns away to throw the used spatulas in the bin and put back the unwanted honey jar. His back is straight and forbidding. Another of those difficult silences settles and John curses himself for making this awkward although for the life of him he doesn’t know how.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“You can have that one. I have plenty of the thyme,” Sherlock says over the top of John’s apology. 

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. Let me give you the going rate for it,” John argues but Sherlock won’t have it.

“I insist, John,” he murmurs and picks up his hat, clearly herding John towards the door. “Now if you don’t mind, I have things I need to attend to.”

His manner has changed completely and John just cannot understand what has happened. “Look,” he says, standing his ground. “I’m sorry if I’ve said the wrong thing…”

“Why haven’t you bothered to learn any French?”

“What?” 

“You haven’t tried at all although you’ve been here for almost two months,” Sherlock rattles out. His eyes have gone cold and calculating and John feels a flicker of unease at the intensity of his gaze. 

“You’re not planning on staying here,” Sherlock states, then straightens. “Ahhh, you’re not planning on staying anywhere, are you?” he breathes, eyes shining with understanding.

John feels sick. There are things you don’t say, don’t mention even obliquely. It seems that those rules don’t apply to this man.

“Really, John? Suicide? Isn’t that a little bit of a cowardly way out? Not a soldier’s way, surely? Or is that why you haven’t done it yet?” 

John tries to keep his gaze neutral, but he knows his jaw is clenched so hard it’s tic-ing. His teeth feel like they are only seconds from cracking. And now he has the first piece of the puzzle as to why Sherlock is so isolated.

It turns out that Sherlock Holmes is a bit of a prick; an insightful prick, but a prick all the same.

He says nothing, but picks up his cane from the corner of the bench where he’d hung it.

“Thank you for the honey, Sherlock.” He turns and walks from the room, leaving the new jar where it is.

>>><<<


	4. The Invitation

The weather seems set now and although the evenings are still chilly, the days are warm. The sun rises a little earlier and sets a little later every day which John has always known but has never marked in the way he does now. To wake with the sun and to eat his dinner while the sky darkens is an unexpected pleasure.

John broods for a few days at Sherlock’s carelessly thrown words. The man knows nothing about what John has seen and done, and while his primary purpose in coming to France was to avoid his sister and find somewhere that he could be anonymous and numb, he can’t deny that he has, on occasion, wondered if there might be an easier way to end the nightmares and the episodes and the fear of encountering triggers. He hasn’t consciously avoided learning French but it is another of those questions that he’d have to ask himself whether it was worth it.

After his strangely abbreviated visit to the Manoir, and Sherlock’s deductions, John is surprised to find a jar of thyme honey on his doorstep the following week. He wonders whether to call and convey his thanks but the brush off from the previous week is still fresh in his mind and it doesn’t sit well with him. Sherlock had gone straight to the heart of John’s recent history without even trying to sugar-coat anything but when John asked a simple question about Sherlock he’d been ignored and invited to leave though not in so many words. John is unsettled by how much that bothers him. He had found himself liking the man despite their rocky start. Mme Hudson tells John that Sherlock doesn’t really have friends in the village and rarely, if ever, has guests. John wonders if Sherlock’s low profile in the locale and his reaction to John’s innocent questions about his past have a cause in common. There are a lot of reasons why a man might not like questions about where he came from, but John can't think of many of them that are pleasant. 

Another jar of honey, wildflower this time, arrives on his doorstep the following week. The week after that it’s rosemary and as April tips over into May, John has a set of honey jars in his cupboard in varying stages of being emptied. He has caught sight of Sherlock once or twice as he’d walked around his garden, but it's always at a distance and too far away for John to call a greeting. Not that he would be guaranteed a response after their last meeting. But the honey that keeps turning up suggests otherwise. 

If Sherlock wanted to be left alone, then the second jar of honey should surely have been his last, but instead Sherlock is visiting every week either very early in the morning or during the night sometime to bring him new flavours - that is not the act of a man who dislikes you. That means that Sherlock is thinking about him - John ignores the little voice that informs him that works both ways. Sherlock knows how much pleasure John gets from his honey and he is going out of his way to make sure he has it. 

This whole thing is ridiculously complicated and John’s thoughts keep circling back to his initial impression that Sherlock might not be completely neurotypical, so maybe his brusque goodbye wasn’t meant to be as sharp as it was. Maybe that’s why he has no friends nearby. Maybe people don’t understand Sherlock’s personality. Or maybe he’s just a posh, rude twat who gets bored of company very quickly. 

Either way John is not a quitter. He likes Sherlock, and that hasn’t happened in a long time. Yes, he likes the rude, lanky git, complications and all, and he will risk another rejection for the chance to know him better.

John’s garden had begun to be productive - not by his hand, obviously, but there are some established rhubarb plants that Mme Hudson has made several crumbles from and the artichokes have grown and are producing the flower heads that you apparently cut and steam, according to her. John has an idea that requires a trip to town, empty honey jars and a conversation with the lady herself.

On Thursday afternoon armed with a basket of rhubarb jelly and globe artichokes, John sets off again to tackle Sherlock Holmes in his natural habitat. The jelly came out rather well for a first attempt and it’s a beautiful pale rose colour. Even if Sherlock refuses to engage, and he knows that’s a real possibility, John can feel better about all the gifts of honey that he’s been bringing by returning the favour. 

Now in almost full summer leaf the hedgerows and verges he passes on his way are studded with early blooms and blossom. Here and there the lilac trees are just starting to flower and the sweet delicate scent of them lifts John’s spirits. The drone of bees and other insects almost drowns out the doubts that keep stealing into his head asking why he is doing this when he came to France expressly to avoid the attention of others and why he chose a man who has already expressed his lack of patience with John’s sad efforts at friendship.

He walks as quickly as he can before he talks himself out of it.

The drive doesn’t seem so long this time and John notices that the gardens are very much in bloom now. He recognises lavender and rosemary, both flavours of honey he has had, as he walks to the main door and knocks. There’s no sign of anyone living here other than the well-kept gardens. If John hadn’t seen his neighbour striding around his garden several times in the last week, he would think the place deserted. 

No one answers his knock and John steps back wondering whether it would be rude to see if the door to the honey room was unlocked. Instead he rounds the side of the house and looks to see if he can find the man himself. The gardens back here are quite different in character, less lawn and trees, and more enclosed and intimate. 

John is about to give up and leave when he spots Sherlock’s back bent over a wooden crate. Whatever he is doing seems to be careful work and his neighbour seems to be very intent on it. He has a netted hat on and getting closer, John can see dozens of bees flying lazy loops around Sherlock. He has a can with white smoke drifting lazily from the spout beside him which he reaches down for and waves over the crates.

“Sherlock?” John calls softly enough not to startle either him or his excitable friends. 

“John, come and look,” Sherlock calls as if he were expecting him. “There’s spare gear over there.”

John follows Sherlock’s gesture and finds hoods and gloves neatly folded on a nearby wall. He puts down his basket and cane, and covers up before returning to edge closer to Sherlock’s hive. 

Sherlock waves him closer still and John sees that he is holding a frame that is thick with bees. 

“What are we doing here?” John asks, hypnotised by the moving mass of insects that Sherlock holds with his bare hands.

“We’re stopping another incident like the one that happened in your garden I hope,” Sherlock says quietly, slotting the frame back and selecting another. “This hive was overcrowded after the winter, so I split it. You divide the brood frames and honey frames between the old and new colonies and leave the queen in the original. You replicate the right conditions for the new hive to hatch a new queen of their own and if you’ve done it right then the new queen will mate and begin to produce eggs.”

“Two hives out of one. Clever,” John says admiringly.

“Yes, your bees took me rather by surprise. I hadn’t realised they would swarm so early in the year.” He slots another frame back carefully and pulls out a third. “Ah, there she is,” he says, bending closer to look.

John peers over Sherlock’s shoulder but can only see a lot of moving and buzzing. 

“Which one?”

Carefully, Sherlock leans the frame on his knee and tips it so John can see better. He points to the middle of a cluster of bees. “See the slightly longer bee? Do you see her shape and colouring differ from those around her? That’s the queen. Some people mark them with colour, but if you know what you’re looking for there’s no need.”

“So how long has she been queen?”

“Only a week or two but she’s already laying eggs - that’s a good sign. I need to move this colony to a new area to stop them robbing or being robbed by stronger colonies.” 

“Do you need a hand?” John asks, fascinated by the grace and deftness of Sherlock’s bee handling. They are very calm around him and seem quite content to let him work.

“That would be a great help,” Sherlock replies, directing John to replace layers of mesh and the lid of the hive before they take a side each and walk it out to fields on the estate that appears to have been set aside for bee habitat. They set the hive down in its new place and retreat.

“Clover,” Sherlock explains. “Makes a lovely, light, floral honey.” 

He slips his hood off, turning back toward the Manoir and John follows, removing his borrowed kit as they walk. It has made Sherlock’s curls riotous and some of the happy glow from working with the bees lingers on his face. He looks relaxed and cheerful and John recalibrates his estimate on his age down by around five years. With his habitual fitted shirt and trousers combination, and his ascetic good looks, it’s a surprise to see Sherlock in jeans and an untucked shirt. John is not exactly intimidated by the man, but his appearance is clearly something that Sherlock has constructed for a reason. Being allowed to see behind that facade feels like a privilege. 

Instead of returning to the original hives, Sherlock leads John on a circuit of the gardens and the other colonies he has secreted around the estate. They don’t disturb any more of the hives but Sherlock tells John about them and what he is hoping to achieve by siting them where he has. John finds the whole thing very interesting and asks Sherlock a number of questions that the man seems pleased by. They grow easier in each other’s company and John is very careful to keep the conversation away from topics that might shut his neighbour down again. If nothing else, John has new found respect for honeybees and beekeepers in general. 

They finally make it back to the Manoir, and John leads around to where he left his basket. Leaving the cane where it lies, he presents the contents to Sherlock with an ironic flourish.

“To thank you for all the honey.”

“It was my pleasure,” Sherlock replies. He lifts out one of the jelly jars and reads the sticker. “You made this yourself?”

“Yeah, with a tiny bit of help from Mme Hudson. I’m trying all sorts of new things since I’ve been here,” he grins.

“And how’s the leg now?”

Sherlock’s gaze is direct and holds John’s as the mood between them changes. They have kept to impersonal topics all afternoon. This marks a distinct change of pace and John isn’t sure why.

“It’s… improving.” He glances down first, worried that he’s giving too much away. When Sherlock looks at him like this, John knows that he sees more than the average person - he’s already experienced Sherlock’s attention to detail in relation to his history. He worries that if he meets Sherlock’s gaze then he will be giving away things he hasn’t yet had time to examine himself yet - if Sherlock brings them out too soon then they might wither and die in the harsh light of day. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Sherlock asks after a moment. “I haven't much in, but I can whip up an omelette and some salad.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” John replies.

“It’s no bother at all. Of course, if you have other plans…”

John assures him that he doesn’t and Sherlock leads him into the house with a small, pleased smile on his face that makes something in John’s stomach buzz in response.

They enter through a beautiful room that is clearly for dining with a long marble-topped table. There are watercolours on the walls, wood paneling that has been painted a soft sage colour and chairs pushed back to the sides of the room as if the table is used to many more diners than it currently welcomes. Light floods in through the door but John has to hurry to follow Sherlock further into the house. After a turn or two John finds himself in a cavernous kitchen that must have looked pretty much the same for two hundred years or more. The ceiling is supported by ancient dark beams and there is a huge scrubbed wooden table and benches that are still dwarfed by a massive stone fireplace. Along one wall there are more modern tiles and some fitted cabinets as well as a range style oven, but these seem to be the only concessions to the 20th century. A couple of windows overlook a courtyard at the back of the house and John can see the impressive thickness of the building’s walls in the recess of the window frames.

“Have a seat, John,” Sherlock invites and finds wine glasses and a bottle of a white John hasn’t tasted before. Handing him a corkscrew, Sherlock instructs John to do the honours which he does while Sherlock washes lettuce and finds eggs, cheese and herbs. 

Sherlock is efficient in the kitchen, moving with a raw kind of grace around the counters and appliances. John has a lot of questions that could be filling this quiet but the last thing he wants is to trespass on whatever it is that Sherlock deems to be out of bounds. John wants to be invited. John is beginning to suspect that he wants a lot of things that he hasn’t in quite some time.

In just a few minutes Sherlock has two plates of food in his hands. “Bring the wine, John,” he invites and leads the way out of the kitchen and into the courtyard where a small table and chairs are set up. Most of the bees have returned home by now with the sun setting, but there is enough warmth to be able to sit outside and a few still bumble softly in the lavender borders and the little herb garden that defines the area. He puts their plates one on either side of the table, pulls cutlery, napkins and a cigarette lighter from his pocket. He strikes the flame and sets it to a couple of lanterns that decorate the table. They don’t really need the light yet, but it’s a nice touch.

The food is simple but delicious and Sherlock accepts the compliments that John pays him with charming modesty. The wine is cool and crisp and perfectly suited to their meal. They eat in a comfortable quiet, only speaking when moved to do so. 

John sits back and picks up his glass, now only a mouthful left. He feels content and calm in a way that surprises him with its simplicity. If this were a date, John would be congratulating himself on how well it was going about now. He feels safe and therefore generous and open. His ex-therapist would be proud. 

“When I woke up I couldn’t feel my shoulder, only the pain in my thigh. I assumed that was where I had been hit.”

Sherlock looks up from his glass but says nothing. He doesn’t even look surprised at the non-sequitur. 

“Of course, my shoulder did hurt eventually and for quite some time, but now it’s pretty good. I still have a tremor in my left hand, but I have retained my range of motion quite well. When I got back to London it was my leg that caused most problems. That and the PTSD. I have nightmares and loud or unexpected noises can be a problem. Certain scents,” John says quietly.

“I dream of that last patrol. Six members of my team of ten didn’t make it out that day. I dream that they are all hit. I don’t have time to stabilise one before the next one crashes. As fast as I work I can’t save any of them. I never dream of the sniper, only of failing to do my job.”

This is more than he has talked about his injuries since he was discharged - more than he’s told Harry or his therapist. He doesn’t know exactly why he’s telling Sherlock this. Not yet, anyway. 

“I came here because being in London when I wasn’t really me anymore was too hard. People treat you differently, look at you differently. I couldn’t stand it.”

Accepting the admission with a quiet nod, Sherlock reaches across and pour another small measure into John’s glass.

“Saint Barts is a good place to remember who you are if that’s what you’re looking for,” Sherlock says, filling his own glass again. “Or it’s a good place to think of someone new to be.”

John leans an elbow on the table and props his chin onto his open palm.

After a moment to sip his newly refreshed glass Sherlock puts it down. 

“Le Manoir used to belong to my grandmother. I used to come here as a child during the holidays and roam the estate from dawn to dusk. When Grand-mère died she left it to my mother but she and father are academics and this place isn’t really terribly well connected when they both had research posts in the UK. Mummy invited a cousin of hers to look after the place for us - to live here in return for keeping the place up and overseeing the land we rent out, that sort of thing. It was useful to be able to take his place when it became… necessary for me to leave the UK.” Sherlock bites his lip and his eyes slide off to one side as he pauses. His words seem carefully chosen and a little stilted. 

John has a strong urge to get up and take the man in his arms but knows it would not be welcomed. Sherlock looks younger again, uncertain for the first time since John has known him. He frowns and rubs a nervous, subconscious thumb over his own knuckles.

“Most of the locals still think I am him; he used to keep himself to himself. I don’t do anything that might disabuse them of that idea.”

John waits. They drink and watch the last of the oranges and magentas fade from the west and Venus appear - a brilliant speck of silver low in the sky.

Sherlock shivers minutely and John reaches to pick up their plates. “Thank you for dinner, Sherlock. It was delicious.”

His neighbour’s shoulders relax visibly and he sighs. He gives John a small smile and leads him back inside where it is warmer. John insists on washing up the few dirty items from their meal while they talk about inconsequential things; the weather, the supermarket in town, John’s garden. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. Sherlock sits at the enormous table and finishes his wine, watching John. They make each other laugh and tease gently. John begins to relax - could it be that he has passed Sherlock’s tests now?

“I’d better get going,” John says as he dries his hands on the teatowel. “Thanks again for the honey. And for dinner.”

Sherlock waves off the thanks with a half smile. “Don’t mention it. Thank you for the jelly and for your help with the hive.” He seems to have an unpleasant thought. “Did you walk here? Around the road?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I can’t get lost at least.”

“It’s four times as far if you follow the road. I’ll show you the route through the gardens - much quicker,” Sherlock insists, and that’s how John finds himself walking through the estate grounds with Sherlock back in his swoopy coat. Wearing a borrowed thick cotton jacket, John watches the moon rise and feels the tiniest bit thrilled whenever their arms brush together as they make their way through the pitch-dark. John thinks he could probably walk all night like this - his head is clear and he’s hopeful… yeah, that’s it… he’s feeling hopeful. It’s such a revelation to him - he’s only realising now that he has been existing without it since he was shot. On the back of this he remembers the fear of disappointment, but to feel something that isn’t despair, to feel  _ anything _ now can only be progress. 

In just a few minutes they have John’s orchard in sight. The house is in darkness, but the moon is luminous and John is not worried about losing his footing.

Sherlock stops on the boundary between their properties and turns to face John. He smiles and lifts his eyebrows, pleased to have been proven right about his distance calculations.

John nods and murmurs his thanks once more. He sticks his hands in the pockets of the jacket - it’s warm and softened by age. John wonders if it’s one that Sherlock wears sometimes.

“Well, goodnight, John,” Sherlock says, his voice low and hushed. His eyes are silver now, like the moonlight that picks up the curls in his inky hair. He seems about to say something else, but rolls his lips between his teeth instead and looks uncertain. Finally he moves to shake John’s hand.

John looks down at the offered hand, then back up into Sherlock’s face. It’s time to take a leap of faith. He steps closer forcing Sherlock to drop his hand. He’s too close for this to be anything but what it is, but John keeps his hands in his pockets in the most non-threatening gesture he can think of. Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly but he doesn’t step back as John lifts his chin and reaches up to place the lightest, but most deliberate kiss he can manage on his lips. He doesn’t rush it but he doesn’t linger either. It is unambiguously a message of intent and now John hopes.

Sherlock’s mouth doesn’t disappoint. It is as full and warm as John has been imagining since he first laid eyes on him but there is no immediate response to his bold gesture. Sherlock is frozen and John’s heart, already beating wildly, leaps into his throat. He’s misjudged this? He’s read it wrong? He’s ruined everything! Oh, Christ, is he going to actually be sick?

Sherlock’s eyes, when he draws back, are narrowed and appraising. His gaze flickers down John’s body and back up to his face; calculating and inscrutable. John braces himself. Is it going to be a shove or a punch? Or bitter, spiteful words spat at him like so many chips of ice? He doesn’t dare breathe but he needs to so badly his lungs burn with it.

Slowly, a centimetre at a time, Sherlock leans forward, his body as stiff and awkward as John has ever seen it. At the last moment his eyes flutter closed and he finds John’s mouth with his own. Soft - achingly softly in a way John could not have anticipated, Sherlock kisses with a lifetime’s intensity poured into it, even in this simplest of physical connections. It is beautiful. Incandescent. Perfect.

And John doesn’t think he will ever need to breathe again. 

Sherlock hesitantly rests his hands on John’s waist and his mouth moves with more pressure now. He pulls back slightly and brushes his lips over John’s seeking mouth, steady and more certain as each second passes.

He pulls away carefully after a minute or two to look at John with his head tipped to one side as if encountering a puzzle. He sighs.

“Goodnight,” he repeats, though to John it seems as if a year or more has passed since he first said it. His hands leave John’s waist with an unmistakable caress. 

John watches him go until he is swallowed up by the shadows, then walks the last minute to home; no cane but an incredulous grin on his face.


	5. The Gathering Storm

John is only just out of the shower when he hears a car pull into the drive. He breathes calmly and recalls the exercises that his therapist gave him for when he felt symptoms. It helps a little and each time it does, he feels a little more in control of himself, rather than the mess of a man he was at first.

It’s Mme Hudson, who always claims to be surprised that he is up but never alters the time of day that she visits on her sporadic appearances. She pops a Tarte Tatin on his table and puts water on for coffee and John, who has come to understand that Mme Hudson is the sweetest, kindest miniature tyrant he has ever encountered, sits down at the table and lets her fuss.

“So, how did it go yesterday?” she asks, settling herself with a steaming cup and a slice of tarte. 

“Yesterday?” John echoes, all innocence and mild interest.

“John Watson, you cannot ask an old lady for help with sweets to woo your love and not expect to have to report on it later!” she scoffs.

John laughs aloud. “How do you know I haven’t just developed an interest in making preserves?”

Mme Hudson casts a judgemental eye over the shelf of honeys he has lined up and raises her eyebrows at him. “Short of things to put on your toast in the morning, are you?”

John shrugs and smiles ruefully. “It went better than last time. He didn’t insult me and show me out this time at least.”

“Oh, I knew he had a soft spot for you. So when are you seeing him again?”

“I don’t know that I am,” he says and takes a mouthful of the tarte when she throws up her hands at him.

“You could be good for him. He spends too much time alone up there.”

John swallows. “How long has he been here now?”

“Three, maybe four years. It’s not healthy for a young man like him to be alone.” 

Mme Hudson seems to be the only other person who Sherlock interacts with on a regular basis, and John isn’t certain what that relationship might look like. She’s very defensive of him, he understands but that loyalty must have been earned at some point and John would dearly love to know what that was.

“I don’t know. He seems to like his own company quite well enough.”

“Yes,” Mme Hudson agrees. “But he can't miss what he’s never had.”

“You seem to know him quite well,” John says in what he hopes is a nonchalant way but Mme Hudson gives him a look that tells him she knows what he’s up to.

“I’ve known Sherlock for a long time, dear.”

“Since before he came here?” John suggests.

“Yes, and if I’ve learned one thing about him, it’s that if you want to know something about him, you’ll have to ask him yourself!”

“He’s not exactly the chatty type,” John counters, knowing he’s been found out.

Mme Hudson finishes her coffee and gets up from the table. “He doesn’t trust easily, John, and there’s a reason for that. But sometimes the solution to a problem is just as much a hardship as the problem itself.”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” John asks quickly before she can gather her things and leave.

Her eyes slide away from John’s and he feels a trickle of cold discomfort run down his spine.

“Not exactly,” she hedges. “But he’s been through enough, so if you’ve been lucky enough to catch his eye, then you just better be good to him.”

She softens her words with kisses to his cheeks before she trots off again, but John knows when he’s been told off.

>>><<<

John has an itchy, unsettled feeling for the rest of the day. He’s been in the garden, clearing and digging, but by lunch time he’s completely out of sorts. The weather is close and airless, and John squints at the sky which is clouding over and hazy now. Even the birds are quieter. There’s a storm on the way for certain. It’s making the air thick and syrupy, and John retreats to the house where he finds he cannot settle to anything. 

He wonders for the umpteenth time whether he should walk over and see Sherlock but something tells him that he cannot rush this thing that is growing between them. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to though. 

As the sun sets, the distant rumbles begin. It’s too warm to do anything, too distracting to read. The storm is far enough away that he isn't able to see lightning but John swears he can feel the static dancing along his arms and shoulders. He paces from room to room, stopping at the windows to stare out for a few moments before resuming his patrol. He feels like he can’t get a full breath.

The sky darkens quickly and the trees, still all day, begin to mutter and thrash as the winds rise. The first drops of rain are fat and sparse, but within three minutes they are falling with steady determination. John turns on the radio he normally carries into the garden with him and tries to find some music, but all he can find tonight are hiss and crackle. He tells himself that he’s a grown man and that he hasn’t ever been afraid of thunder before. He tells himself to pull his shit together and to get a grip.

The crack, when it comes, is directly overhead. It produces almost instantaneous, violet-white lightning and the noise is deafening. John flinches and tries to do his breathing exercises. There’s another resounding strike nearby, so loud it makes his jaws ache and his heart seize. The lights dim, then rise, flicker and die. The darkness seems absolute, punctuated by blinding flashes that seem to come from everywhere at once. 

John can feel he is becoming dizzy, knows he is hyperventilating but cannot seem to do anything about it. The rain comes in waves, pounding and rattling against the windows while the wind shrieks and howls around the house. John puts his back to the wall and covers his mouth with his hand to stop the animalistic whines that he can’t keep behind his teeth. He slides down until he is sitting, crunched up in the corner of the kitchen, and closes his eyes.

He can smell baked earth. 

How ridiculous is that? He’s in France. _France!_

But it's broken concrete and baked earth and burning. 

And, inevitably, blood. 

His blood and that of his comrades. He can hear their moans and pleas. He could help them if he could stand. But they’re pinned down and the enemy are getting closer. If he moves they will see him. He shushes the others desperately and presses a filthy hand over the wound in his shoulder. It makes him feel faint and nauseous, but if they keep calling, they will be found. There’s another rattle of automatic firearms. It whines and cracks into the wall nearby, sending another flurry of dust and debris. He hears shouting, getting closer. And…

They’re here.

John can see them moving around outside, gesturing to each other.

Oh god! _Oh god!_ There’s no way they’ll be able to miss them. If he could stand… If he could stand then…

“John! John! Let me in.”

They’re banging on the door, though John remembers that the door had already been blown in when they took cover here. 

“John! It’s Sherlock. Can you let me in?”

Sherlock? John opens his eyes. The flash of artillery is still lighting up the sky sporadically, but Sherlock needs to get inside or they’ll find him for sure. 

His shoulder screams in protest as he inches his way to the door and flicks the locking mechanism. Sherlock falls inside by the light of a new volley and the roar of fresh explosions. He’s soaked through, but John grabs him and drags him back to the corner where he has less exposure. Is it blood? His hair is plastered to his head with it and he’s lost his uniform. He drips onto John’s skin, but it’s cold and it smells clean and…

“It’s a storm, John,” Sherlock says in a low voice. He sounds like he has been running. He’s struggling to catch his breath. “It’s a thunderstorm. The electricity has gone out - it always does out here.”

Electricity? There’s no electricity out here - this town has been bombarded for days and there’s nothing left of it, nothing for the electricity to run. Maybe he’s hit his head.

Sherlock sits back against the wall next to John. 

“Sometimes it takes them a day or so to get the supply back. I’ve brought some candles, we can light some in a minute. It’s just a storm. It’s been brewing all afternoon. The bees have been pouring back to the hive for the last few hours to avoid it. They seem to know when it’s coming. I have several theories about that - remind me to tell you about them sometime.”

The sky continues to light up and every so often there’s another larger strike that’s closer again. 

Sherlock’s hand is cold and there are tremors that John can feel that run through him but it doesn’t stop him from talking. The bees, the honey, the river that runs to the south of Le Manoir and through the town of Saint Barthélemy Le Vieux, the way they sometimes get storms like this in the spring, the hope that the blossom on the trees is sufficiently advanced that the wind won’t affect the yield from John’s fruit trees, Mme Hudson’s fruit cake recipe…

John listens to the sound of Sherlock’s voice and slowly the automatic fire and the cries of the injured recede. Now he can hear the wind and the hiss and clatter of rain as it comes in waves. Sherlock smells like fresh air and wet laundry and his hands are very long and slender, very pale, and the one in John’s hand is beginning to warm up finally.

He feels disoriented and exhausted. He was doing something, but now he can’t remember what it was even though it had seemed vitally important at the time. It's dark and must be getting late; he can't stop yawning and he’s cold from sitting on the floor here.

“Should we light the fire?” John asks eventually in one of the gaps in Sherlock’s soliloquy. 

“We could,” Sherlock agrees and sounds ridiculously pleased at the idea, “but let’s light these candles first.”

He finds a plate and a small bowl from the counter and secures the candles he’s brought to them with wax dripped from their melted bases. They don’t give off a great deal of light, but John can see most of the kitchen now, and he can see Sherlock, bedraggled and shivering, sitting among the drips from his sodden clothes, on his kitchen floor. 

“You should get changed. You’re frozen!” John chides and takes Sherlock’s hand again.

“Do you think so, doctor?” Sherlock asks with a perfectly straight face, then rolls his eyes when John scowls at him. And that feels...right - teasing and joking with Sherlock. 

He can’t quite remember why he’s wet though. Or why he’s here.

They pick up the candles and go upstairs, John leading Sherlock to his room where he finds a clean sweatshirt and some pyjama bottoms for him. He tells him where the bathroom is, but Sherlock simply turns his back and peels himself out of his ruined clothes right there in front of John.

John is still feeling a little out of focus and he wonders if being naked is the kind of thing they do around each other now. Not that he’s complaining at all; Sherlock is all long limbs and white skin and tight muscle. John wonders if he should look away, but before he can decide, Sherlock is back and urging him out of his sweaty garden clothes and into fresh boxers and a tee-shirt. 

Thunder rumbles around the house continuously, sometimes low and distant but sometimes bright and loud and close by. It’s a real corker of a storm and John thinks about his poor garden and how much tidying up there will be for him to do tomorrow. 

“Are we going to bed now?” John asks. “I’m knackered and it will warm you up.”

Sherlock just stares at him for a moment then agrees that it would be a very good idea. They never got around to lighting that fire and with the electricity out, the best place for them is in bed. 

John climbs in and watches as Sherlock puts his candle on the bedside table and cautiously lies down on top of the duvet. He must have lost leave of his senses - they might be experiencing record temperatures this past month but when the sun goes down it’s a very quick reminder that it is still spring.

“Get under, idiot!” John says, exasperated and softens it with a smile when Sherlock just looks at him again and blinks.

Sherlock is all elbows and knees as he maneuvers himself under the covers and lies down next to John. They both blow out their candles and John waits for his eyes to get used to the dark.

Sherlock is lying on his back, ramrod straight, his head turned and watching John. The lightning flickers every now and again, violet highlights in his black hair, but the rain has moved on for now. The sounds from outside are drips and trickles and the lessening wind, stirring the trees which send a new cascade of drops.

He reaches for Sherlock’s hand, squeezes it and falls asleep between one breath and the next. 


	6. The Breakfast Table

John rouses from unremembered dreams once or twice in the night, but each time he recognises new waves of the storm rolling through and he curls closer into the warmth and comfort under his duvet and lets it soothe him back to sleep. 

John is accustomed to waking soon after daybreak with the sun lightening his room gradually. He’s not so familiar with waking up with his mouth full of mad curls or a morning erection to match his own pressed into his thigh. 

Opening an eye, it’s clear that the mad curls do, in fact, belong to Sherlock, so John closes his eye again and tries not to panic that he has very little clue exactly how they ended up like this. His muscles feel tight and overused, but not in a pleasant way. This is all adding up to something John has experienced a couple of times since Afghanistan and he recalls the impending storm from yesterday, and assumes that it triggered a PTSD episode. Normally he wakes from these in much less comforting circumstances than being warmly enveloped by reclusive, mysterious, dark haired men, but he’s not one to complain. His mind feels surprisingly clear other than the gap that occurs when he’s suffered an attack. It usually takes him around a day to feel fully reconnected to life, but clearly both he and Sherlock feel pretty connected right now. 

“How are you?” Sherlock rumbles, his voice low and soft. 

John’s cock, snugged up against Sherlock’s hip, gives a hefty twitch at the sound and Sherlock chuckles.

“And how’s the rest of you?” he asks, lifting his head and looking at John with a gentle understanding that John is not quite ready for.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. 

“Grateful,” he croaks honestly. He clears his throat and yawns trying to cover his embarrassment. He hopes he didn’t make a complete arse of himself last night. He wonders how Sherlock has got involved in this at all.

“I don’t know the etiquette of this situation exactly,” Sherlock says in a voice so deliciously calm and present that John just wants to hear it every time he wakes up, “but I can assure you that all we did is hold hands and sleep.”

“I know,” John assures him. “Seriously, Sherlock, thank you for last night. I don’t remember a bloody thing about it, but I hope that I didn’t do or say anything that would make you feel…”

“You didn’t. You have nothing to worry about.”

“How did you even end up here?”John asks, feeling awkward. It’s more than a little unnerving not knowing these things but he doesn’t want to insult the man who spent the night dealing with his issues.

“I heard the storm begin while I was tidying my gear away. When the electricity inevitably failed I remembered you said loud noises were a problem, so I thought I’d run over and make sure you were okay. And I... wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, well, I appreciate it,” John tells him, feeling warmed at the concern and frankly thrilled at the admission that Sherlock was thinking about him. “I guess you got a bit more than you bargained for.”

“I hadn’t bargained for anything, John. I’m glad you let me in.”

John doesn’t want to do anything that might remind Sherlock that he is in bed with him in a rather compromising situation in case it unnerves the man, but he cannot help but sigh himself further into Sherlock’s arms. Just a bit. Except...

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“This isn’t what I was wearing yesterday,”

“Ah, no,” he replies. “But you were still in your dirty clothes from the garden and I’d been dripping on you on a cold floor for an hour or more, so…” He shrugs. “You were kind enough to lend me some pyjamas too.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“It’s still early. Do you mind if we doze for a bit?” 

Not that this isn’t a brilliant place to wake up, but John feels he might benefit from a few moments of quiet to balance himself and to start thinking how to get Sherlock here in his bed again, but in better circumstances.

Sherlock resettles himself around John, and John feels well and truly wrapped - it’s not unpleasant. At all. He’s managed to scooch himself back a little, away from John’s lower body, so his predicament isn’t quite as pressing as it was. 

John is warm and safe and has woken up in bed with a guy he thinks he might really feel something for. Compared to the outcomes of other such nights, he feels pretty good about everything, so it seems a shame not to have Sherlock as close as he might be. John moves into the gap that Sherlock just carefully curated between them. He slots his thigh back between Sherlock’s, careful not to knee him in the balls, but snugged in close enough to feel the heat of him. John flexes his sore muscles, just a tiny bit - to get comfortable. 

Sherlock breathes in sharply through his nose and holds it while John settles again to see how that went down. He watches Sherlock’s face for any trace of discomfort or disgust but his eye only flicker shut and his cheeks, already pink from sleep, flush further, spreading the colour across his jaw and down his throat.

With a carefully hissed breath Sherlock exhales and John can feel him harden further. He pushes into John’s thigh in a gesture that appears to be involuntary. This movement brings Sherlock’s hip and stomach closer and John cannot help the way his body arches as they brush together. Sherlock too seems unable to ignore the sensory feedback from this gentle sway they have begun and he chases it. 

It’s lazy and soft and bloody lovely and John feels that he could happily spend days just rubbing his sensitised skin against Sherlock’s, and feeling the curling heat between them smoulder and catch. They kiss when they can reach or spare the brain capacity for the coordination necessary.

After a few minutes of sighs and whispered confirmations, Sherlock begins to grow more desperate. He rolls into John slightly, changing their angle and giving himself leverage to add some pressure to their heightening desire as they edge closer to the point of no return.

John recognises a genius move when he sees one and puts his arms around Sherlock’s waist and helps him to find the sweetest places between them. Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed shut now and he has his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. His cheeks are burning and his hair is a complete write-off from the storm and sleep and sex. John thinks he looks utterly delicious and feels even better everywhere they are pressed together. He smells sleepy and of John’s laundry powder and of Sherlock’s soap - it makes John’s mouth water and his stomach flip.

The helpless little grunting sounds that Sherlock is making on each roll of their hips now is addictive, and John lifts to meet him in an effort to wring more of those telling little sounds from his bedmate.

Sherlock lifts his chin and gasps. He’s not gentle in his efforts to complete anymore and John revels in it. For a wiry, slim man, he has a lot of hidden strength and solidness, and he's using every ounce of it now in an effort to bring them both off.

John can feel it building, coiling in his belly and groin, tighter and tighter as Sherlock ruts against him. For a second Sherlock rolls away, scrabbling at his borrowed pyjamas. He pushes them down to his thighs and then pulls the waistband of John’s boxers down so it sits under his balls. He wastes no time in rolling back into John’s arms and lining them up together.

And oh, god! He’s _brilliant!_

If it felt good before, now it is even better, however improbable that sounds. Sherlock lifts up on his elbows and opens lust-filled hooded eyes to look down into John’s face as he rocks them both to a groaning, rough, messy climax, John clutching at Sherlock’s back and arse in an effort to wring every second of pleasure they can out of this. Sherlock comes first, spurting between them over John’s belly and chest, but John is only seconds behind, the feeling of Sherlock swelling and releasing and the sweet glide of his cock through Sherlock’s come tip him over in toe-curling, breath-stealing waves of sensation.

They sink back into a twitching, sticky tangle, panting and smiling at each other with a perfect mixture of delight and embarrassment. The storm has taken the heat with it and skin that is exposed to the cool air of John’s bedroom is quickly drawn back under the duvet where it is cosy. Unwilling to make a dash for the bathroom quite yet, John dozes with the grounding weight of Sherlock comforting against his side. 

Eventually John’s bladder wins the battle of wills and he has to go to the bathroom, muttering curses all the way. He jumps in the shower when he’s relieved himself, pleased to see that the electricity is back on this morning. The gentle ache in his thighs and shoulders is much more welcome with a pleasurable memory to associate them with. 

With a towel around his waist, John returns to the bedroom and kisses Sherlock’s forehead to wake him from the doze he’s sunk into. Sherlock grumbles at his dampness but accepts the towel that John gives him and disappears toward the bathroom with a tiny shy smile.

John dresses and leaves out a few other bits that Sherlock can choose from when he’s clean. He walks downstairs and starts some coffee and finds some of yesterday’s bread that will still be good for toast. His feet find the water on the floor where Sherlock must have sat up with him last night and he drops a couple of tea towels to soak it up and stop Sherlock from slipping on it. He’s moved again by the caring and empathy that he showed. Dinner and a few kisses (as excellent as they were) were hardly a long-term commitment from him, and the fact that he’d come running once the storm started, remembering John’s words and realising that he might need help was both generous and unlooked for. 

Now their relationship (if that’s what this is, John cautions himself) has moved on somewhat, John thinks that they won’t be able to postpone some serious conversation for very long. Clearly they both come with some serious baggage and it wouldn't be fair for either of them to pretend otherwise.

The toast pops and makes him jump. John ignores it for a minute, walking to the garden door and peering out. It doesn’t look like there’s too much damage, though he can see a few things that will need some minimal attention later on. The sky is full of scattered cloud now, moving fast and high, chasing the storm as it rolls north. The sun is intermittent, blinking on and off across the garden, warm in the glare but quick to cool when the clouds go over.

Sherlock walks down the stairs and into the kitchen, making more noise than he needs to, John knows. It makes a ridiculously soft smile break across his face, but he keeps it hidden, facing the door as Sherlock takes the place beside him to inspect the aftermath. 

“Any permanent damage done or is everything fixable?” Sherlock asks quietly, turning his head slightly to watch John’s face.

John heart tumbles in his chest. He can’t believe that just a few weeks ago he’d thought Sherlock struggled with neuro-normative social interaction. With a single sentence, he’s just blown that theory out of the water - there’s so much to unpack from those few words and several levels on which to interpret them. Thankfully the answer on all levels is the same.

“It’s all fine.” 

John makes coffee and brings toast and honey to the table where Sherlock is sitting looking slightly adorable in John’s clothes. 

“Your clothes are in the dryer but you’re welcome to take that stuff if you need to get back,” John offers. “Or you’re welcome to stay.” He doesn’t specify time parameters for that statement and Sherlock flicks him an interested glance and a tiny smile.

“I do need to get back, unfortunately. I have some shipments to get out today but I can wait until my things are dry if you’re not busy.”

John pours them both some coffee, butters his toast and spoons a little honey onto it. He takes a bite and gives Sherlock a blissful smile.

“I’m not busy at all,” John confides and they watch the clouds while the dryer hums away in the background.

>>><<<

Sherlock texts him that night. He asks him about the garden, and about how he’s feeling. He asks him if he’d like to come to dinner later that week. John smiles to himself as he thinks about what to reply. Sherlock is a thirty something recluse with as yet unspecified reasons for having to leave the UK and John is an army veteran with PTSD who would rather live abroad than face finding himself an empty future in the UK. Of course this is never going to be as simple as ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. They are both men who need space and time to adapt, and Sherlock’s invitation is another step towards making something between them that works rather than a headlong rush into unknown territory. 

Replying, John asks Sherlock about his day and his hives and asks what he can bring.

It’s nice. It’s real. And if someone had told John two months ago that he would be in the early stages of a relationship with a man - or any kind of relationship, John would have told them to piss off. Nothing was further from his mind when Harry dropped him off at the ferry terminal. In two short months he has begun a garden, mostly abandoned his cane and become invested in the wellbeing of another human. That’s huge progress. His therapist would be very pleased if he ever intended to talk to her again. He doesn’t know whether to put it down to his own organic recovery, to meeting Sherlock, living in St Barthélemy or a combination of them all. 

Only time will tell if it is something sustainable.

Either way, it’s something good.

>>><<<


	7. Le Manoir

Three days later, John is out walking. He’s going further every week that passes and today he has been following the river. His curiosity got the better of him and he’s been out much longer than intended. The sun has just set when John comes back in sight of Le Manoir and he thinks he might just pop through the shortcut that Sherlock showed him last week so he’s home before full dark. 

He’s about to try to find a signal to text Sherlock to ask for permission when a dark car passes him in the lane. The road is hardly well travelled and John is surprised that anyone is out here at this time of day. He’s even more surprised when it pulls up in the drive at Le Manoir. He steps back out of sight and watches as a man gets out of the car which then turns about and heads back into the town. 

The man is very tall and not dressed for the countryside. He wears dark trousers and smart shoes, an expensive looking jumper over a button-down shirt and an air of not wanting to be seen. 

All of John’s senses tell him that something is not right here and when the man looks left and right, then walks through the gate of the Manoir, his instincts kick in and he follows at a safe distance. 

For a moment John thinks he has lost him - there’s no one on or near the drive, but a second later John spots the auburn hair of the uninvited guest cutting across the park land, keeping to the treeline and setting John’s nerves jangling. 

He keeps pace with the man, staying far enough back that he has time to hide whenever the man infrequently looks about him. He seems to know where he’s going and when he rounds the side of the house instead of going to the front, John is increasingly convinced this man has something to do with Sherlock’s mysterious past. He’s clearly not a member of the gardening staff, and if he were invited he would have been driven to the door. No, something is very wrong here and John peeps around the side of the wall, just as the man lets himself into the small sitting room at the rear of the house taking care to make as little noise as possible.

John is through the door after him in seconds and catches him up in the entrance hall, his head cocked listening for signs of life.

John thinks briefly of his gun tucked away in the wardrobe of his bedroom back home and wonders what the penalty for carrying an unlicensed gun is in France. It’s all academic of course, and he realises he’s going to have to do this the old fashioned way. 

John walks up behind the man as quietly as he can. When he knows he’s been detected, he quickly leans in and twists the man’s arm up behind his back, forcing him into the wall and pinning him there. The man lets out an indignant shout.

“What in the name of god do you think…”

“Looking for something, are you?” John asks conversationally. Keeping his captive trapped, John pats him down none too gently. He confiscates a high-end mobile phone from the man’s trouser pocket as he squawks in protest. He doesn’t appear to have anything that resembles a weapon, and to be honest, he doesn’t seem like the type to get his hands dirty. John is thinking blackmail or some other form of coercion when Sherlock arrives in the hall, clearly having heard the commotion.

He takes one look at the men in front of him and absolutely beams at them. “Oh, well done, John,” he murmurs.

“Sherlock, do you want to phone the police? I caught this one sneaking across the park and in through the sitting room.” John adjusts his grasp on the captive’s arm producing a hiss and a grunt of pain from the man.

“Or you could just introduce us,” the man grits between teeth clenched against the discomfort. He’s got a rather plummy accent, much like…

John has a very bad thought.

“Who is this guy?” he demands.

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet,” Sherlock says slowly. “And my brother. John, this is Mycroft Holmes, my rubbish big brother. Mycroft, this is Dr John Watson, my friend and protector.”

John steps back quickly with his palms held high, as if he’s been burned and the man turns towards them.

“Your brother?”

“Your protector?”

They glare at each other as their words overlap, then at Sherlock who is unaccountably still smiling sunnily at them. In a shirt, tight trousers and dressing gown combination he looks supremely unconcerned by the scene playing out in his hall. 

Mycroft - whatever kind of name that is - cradles his upper arm, stroking it thoughtfully while John diffidently hands back the phone he took. 

“I apologise,” John says stiffly. “When I saw you going round to the back of the house, I thought…”

“Mycroft likes to turn up unannounced,” Sherlock says in a bored voice, now ignoring his brother as far as possible. “He’s attempting to catch me unawares, doing something he wouldn’t approve of. Thankfully that’s rather a short list, provided the circumstances are favourable for him.”

John has no idea what to make of this, so just manages a confused, “Right,” in response.

“You have such an amusingly vivid imagination, brother mine,” Mycroft says and turns his rather unnerving gaze on John now. “Dr Watson, was it? While your intentions were no doubt well meant, I wonder what brought you to be watching the Manor as assiduously as you clearly were.”

Ah! John now knows where Sherlock got his ‘inner prick’ from. It must be genetic.

“I was out walking, actually,” he replies with his most insincere, polite smile. “We don’t get a lot of traffic on this road, so when I saw your car drop you at the end of the drive, I was concerned - particularly when you cut across the park rather than just walking up the drive to the door like an invited visitor.”

Mycroft gives a rather pained nod as Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to talk his way out of that little snippet of information.

“Should I have to announce myself in what is, as far as I know, still my family’s house?” Mycroft looks down at his own fingernails appraisingly, his demeanour completely ingenuous. 

John cuts a look at Sherlock who is scowling now.

“You use that fact all too opportunistically, Mycroft. Now was there something you wanted, other than to ruin my day, of course?”

“Do I need a reason? Can I not simply wish to see you while I am in the vicinity?” 

“I don’t know, can you?” Sherlock responds archly. “It seems to me that you rarely come by without some ulterior motive or another.”

“Needs must, dear brother. It’s so difficult to keep up with you when your phone always seems to go straight to voicemail when I call. Mummy says she finds the same thing.”

“I speak to Mummy!” Sherlock retorts, affronted.

“Yes, indeed; high days and holidays. I think she was hoping for a more meaningful slot into your busy schedule,” Mycroft smarms, his eyes sliding across to John before returning to Sherlock’s increasingly irritated scowl.

Mycroft seems to have all the correct sentiments but his sincerity is somewhat lacking, John thinks. To hear them bicker like this, it is difficult to believe that they are both grown men. He remembers having a similar circular argument when his sister used to invade his bedroom as a child. While he and Harry rarely see eye to eye on much, at least their methods of tormenting each other have kept pace with their years. 

“She does not need to ‘keep up’ with me every single day! It’s been three and a half years now! And they were here at Christmas, though I noticed you were not, for which I’m grateful; it was the best gift you could have given me. And as to you being in the vicinity, I cannot imagine what would bring you to the vicinity of Saint Barthélemy Le Vieux at all - it’s hardly your speed, is it?”

“Nor yours, but you seem to find sufficient things to amuse you.” Mycroft counters swiftly and again, he looks in John’s direction with a smile and a raised eyebrow. If John wasn’t certain he was being mocked the first time, this time, he can’t ignore it.

“Well, if you boys will excuse me, I’ll see myself out,” John says with a nod. He’s already assaulted Sherlock’s brother once; he doesn’t want to make a habit of it and if he stays he can’t guarantee that. Mycroft must have practiced for years to be this condescending and smug. 

“John, don’t go on his account,” Sherlock says, his disappointed gaze swinging around to him. “He’s just leaving.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes and sighs. “Sadly not. I will be staying the night, but Dr Watson, please, if you would be so kind, do join us for dinner.”

John smiles carefully. “It sounds like you two have a lot to catch up on. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath and, his eyes flicking to his brother’s dismayed expression, he speaks. “Dr Watson, I apologise for my behaviour earlier and I am pleased that Sherlock has friends here who are willing to put themselves in harm’s way to ensure his safety. My brother and I tend to bring out the worst in each other but I can assure you that we will endeavour to be on our best behaviour, should you feel you can accept our hospitality this evening.”

“Fat head is right, John. Please stay, if for no other reason than to save me from having to explain to Mummy and Father why Mycroft reached a messy end in an unfortunate kitchen implement malfunction.”

John was looking forward to getting home and sitting down with the dreadful novel he’s currently reading and a cup of tea, but Sherlock’s eyes are so hopeful and Mycroft looks suitably motivated if a little too invested for John’s liking.

“Lovely,” John smiles, trying to make it look genuine. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft says. “What have you got in the refrigerator, Sherlock? I’ll cook.”

“No, I’m cooking!” Sherlock corrects immediately, following his brother out of the hall and down the corridor towards the kitchen. 

John works out how long it will be before he can politely take his leave. In minutes.

>>><<<

The Holmes brothers come to an uneasy agreement over who should cook. In the end Sherlock ends up poaching fish and steaming potatoes and Mycroft gets put on salad duty. John wonders if that was Mycroft’s intention all along when he finds himself alone with Sherlock’s brother in the wood panelled dining room he has seen before, laying a table for their impromptu supper. The room is illuminated by wall lamps and Mycroft has lit candles on the table.

John feels massively underdressed, as casual as this invitation is, in his dusty jeans, trainers and a long-sleeved t-shirt he’s had for years. It was fine for what he’d planned for today before he knew he’d be meeting Sherlock’s family. 

“Is white wine alright for you? I don’t know if Sherlock has much else in the kitchen, but…”

“No, white is fine,” John says, watching as Mycroft expertly uncorks a bottle and proceeds to pour three glasses, passing one to him.

John murmurs his thanks and thinks about how much nicer it was to share a bottle with Sherlock in the courtyard.

“So, John, can I call you John?” Mycroft asks. “What brings you to this corner of France?” 

John still doesn’t trust the man - there’s something about the way that his smiles seem learned rather than instinctive. But he did just rough him up a bit, and John notices that Mycroft is still favouring his left hand, even though he’s clearly right handed. He should feel bad about that. 

He doesn’t. 

John gives Mycroft the potted version of his story and they make small talk about John’s service history and the healing power of taking a break from normality. 

“So how do you know Sherlock?” Mycroft asks politely.

“We’re neighbours. I’m living in my sister’s house, the Maison du Jardinier.” John gestures in the direction he thinks the house is in. “Do you know it?”

“Yes, of course. How nice to have someone in there.” Mycroft is clearly amused at John’s mangling of the French language, but John ignores him grimly.

“Yes, I like it,” John agrees. “So where do you live then? I gather you don’t get down here as often as you’d like to.”

“No indeed,” Mycroft replies, an assessing look in his eye again. “I’m mostly in London, although my work takes me all over.”

John nods. “And what is it you do?”

“I hold a minor position in the British Government.”

It might be John’s imagination, but he would be willing to bet that there was a hint of a challenge in that. “I can see that would keep you busy. So why is it that Sherlock thinks you’re keeping tabs on him?”

“Oh, because I am, John. I worry about him. Constantly. My brother has a knack for finding himself in delicate or unfortunate situations.” Mycroft’s gaze is mild but alert.

It appears the small-talk is over - to be honest John’s surprised that it lasted as long as it did. “What kind of situations?” he asks.

“Ones that require him to spend the last three years in rural Brittany pretending to be an elderly Frenchman.”

“So he’s what? In witness protection?”

“Not exactly. However him having a friend in the vicinity could be both a blessing and a curse.”

“How so?” John asks, feeling his hackles rise despite his best efforts. 

“Friends can be a great support in times of need... “

“Like if he has uninvited visitors sneaking into his house?” John knows he’s already rubbed this one in, and he’ll think of new material soon, but it does bear repeating. 

Mycroft bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. “But they can also, inadvertently or otherwise, reveal the whereabouts of someone who needs to remain… lost.”

“Does he have people looking for him?” John isn’t one for pretty phrases or talking around a subject, particularly when that subject happens to be someone that John is hoping to spend a lot more time with in the near future. And if Mycroft thinks he’s going to get a rise out of John with the  _ ‘or otherwise’  _ comment, he’s out of luck. If he doesn’t understand that Sherlock’s safety is John’s new priority, then he’s not as smart as he thinks he is. 

Mycroft's eyes narrow as he watches John for a few beats of silence. 

“I’m sure Sherlock will fill in the details if you ask, but suffice to say that he drew attention to someone who would rather not have had his dealings scrutinised. My brother is a genius and an idiot in equal measure. In his single-minded pursuit of the truth he failed to see the danger he was putting himself in until it was too late. He uncovered a criminal network, very sophisticated and unlike anything we’d dealt with before. They were less than pleased to be so exposed and we have been trying to locate, infiltrate and neutralise the threat they pose ever since.”

“Ah, the position in the British Government makes more sense now. So, what? They have a contract out on him?” John asks, pleased by how level his voice stays as he speaks.

“They think I’m dead,” Sherlock says from the door, where he’s standing, glaring at his brother with covered dishes in his hands. He stalks across the 

room and deposits them on the table rather hard. They all take the seats they have laid at one end of the remarkably long table. 

“But you think there’s some chance that they might be looking for him still?” John asks, helping himself to salad. If it feels a little surreal to be sitting discussing something like someone faking their own death and having been in hiding for years, John assumes this is standard fare for the Holmes family as they don’t so much as miss a beat as they tuck in. 

“The organisation was scattered after Sherlock disposed of the head of the syndicate,” Mycroft says.

“He disposed of himself, I just happened to be there at the time,” Sherlock corrects, and this must be an old argument because Mycroft just rolls his eyes and continues.

“But it seems that several of his associates were keen to take over the mantle, as it were, and one of them in particular had his heart set on some kind of retribution. Some emotional involvement, I believe.”

“And how certain are you that they still think he’s dead?”

“As far as we can ascertain, they have no inkling that Sherlock survived the incident that killed the head of their operation and we’d very much like to keep it that way. Provided my brother can keep his natural theatrical tendencies under control, we see no reason why the few remaining factions should become aware of the deception.”

“So this little slice of heaven here is actually your cage?” John asks, turning to Sherlock. 

“In effect, yes. But it’s my choice of cage, even if I can’t escape it.”

“Sherlock struggled with the concept at first, I think it’s fair to say. We had several incidents that required intervention during the first year of his ‘death.’”

This seems to be something of a sore point, John realises when Sherlock’s eyes drop to his food and his shoulders tighten.

“I paid for that. Must you throw it in my face at every opportunity?”

“It simply serves as a reminder of what is at stake here. I did not intend to cause you further distress.”

John looks between Mycroft and Sherlock, surprised to see actual contrition on the elder Holmes’s face for the first time. This is clearly something that affected Sherlock deeply and John has a glimpse of the complexity of whatever it is that keeps Sherlock here. He also reluctantly acknowledges that Mycroft, while still a bit of a prick, cares deeply for his brother’s wellbeing.

“So, to return to my point, John, you can see that a friend can be a relative term in relation to my brother’s welfare. Though I don’t doubt your intent, you were not in possession of all the facts when you threw your hat in with my brother. I would not want there to be any misunderstanding which might lead to you needing further… attention.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard, John swears he can hear it. 

“Oh for God’s sake, Mycroft, if you’re going to threaten John, then at least do it properly. This is embarrassing for you both and, frankly, giving me indigestion!” Sherlock drawls and John is not quite fast enough to squash the little smirk that flashes across his face.

Mycroft scowls. “Your safety is…”

“You’ve already run background checks on John, or else you wouldn’t be here!” Sherlock’s voice is so loud it echoes around the room for a moment. 

John’s eyes flick to Mycroft, who meets his gaze unrepentantly. John wonders how many doors can realistically remain closed to those who hold a ‘minor role in the British Government.’ He can’t say he’s happy to have had his privacy invaded in this way, but if it means that Sherlock can be a little more open about his past and that they might have a future together without it hanging over them, then it’s a price he is willing to pay.

“Given that you have been here this long without anyone but Mrs Hudson for company, you will forgive me for being concerned when I learn that you have not only made a friend in the last two months, but that you are becoming… quite close. Should we expect a happy announcement any time soon?”

Sherlock sighs and scowls. 

“Sorry,” John says softly, and if Mycroft has any sense he will be listening very carefully to anything that John has to say in this particular tone. “I’m not quite straight on how any of this is your business.”

“Good point, John. Now, if you’ve finished with the heavy-handed tactics, Mycroft, I suggest that we let John take his leave. I think he’s probably had about as much Holmes as any man should have to bear.”

John tries to catch Sherlock’s eye, but he’s evasive. He thinks the best thing to do here is to comply although he doesn’t wish to leave without giving Sherlock an indication of his resolve. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and lays it beside his plate. Pushing his chair back, he rises to his feet and taps his fingers on the table thoughtfully.

“Mycroft, if you have read up on my history, then you will know the kind of man I am. You will also know that I don’t form bonds with people quickly or often. The fact that I have in this case is not down to me, but down to your brother. Loyalty is something that is earned, not bought or traded. We may not have known each other very long, but I can assure you that no matter the outcome of our friendship, my loyalty is something that Sherlock will never have cause to doubt. 

Thank you for dinner, Sherlock. Pleasure to have met you, Mycroft.”

He gives the table one last pat and goes to find his jacket. From the corner of his eye he can see Sherlock’s wide-eyed surprise and pinkened cheeks as he leaves the room. He doesn’t bother to look at his brother.

>>><<<

It’s dark on the way back through the garden and John doesn’t really know the way, having only walked it once, and that while he was watching Sherlock more than he was watching the route. He’s beginning to wish that he’d gone back down the drive and around the road on the longer route, and he’s wondering if he could double back past the Manoir without being seen, when he hears a low whistle.

Sherlock appears beside him, his eyes catching the starlight or something bright as they seem to glitter. He has his big, long coat on and John gets a gust of Sherlock scented air as he takes the lead and shows John the way; honey and sunshine and expensive soap. 

They walk in silence, and John would be concerned by that except for the fact that Sherlock came out to look for him, to find him and get him safely home. 

Within a few minutes, they are back on the boundary between the two properties and Sherlock halts, turning to face John.

“What you said, it was...good,” Sherlock says with uncharacteristic ineloquence. “Thank you, John.”

“Nothing to thank me for. It was the truth. I don’t know what you want… or even _ if  _ you want… but regardless, you don’t need to worry about me,” John answers as plainly as he can.

Sherlock steps into John’s space and looks down into his face forcing him to crane his neck back.

“I do...want,” Sherlock says, dark and smooth.

John takes a deep breath and hopes that his voice won’t let him down. He grins. “Good. That’s good. I do too. I don’t suppose you… we could..?” John tips his head in the direction of his house, sitting reassuringly square and close by.

Sherlock gusts a deep breath that whispers over John’s cheeks and nose. “I can’t tonight. Only god knows what the fatuous idiot will do if I leave him unattended at home. He’ll be gone early in the morning. You’ll still come to dinner tomorrow night? I hope he hasn’t put you off eating forever, although I would find it completely understandable if he had.”

He chuckles and tucks his cold hands inside Sherlock’s coat to find warmth at his waist, just as Sherlock bends lower and kisses him with an aching intensity, delicate and deliberate. Sherlock steals tiny laps at John’s mouth, tasting and learning and driving him crazy with want. He scrapes his teeth gently over John’s bottom lip and sucks softly. One of them makes a low groaning sound and John is very much afraid that it’s him. Sherlock lingers and they breathe together, their lips still touching and John just wants to climb inside that coat with him and stay there forever.

Sherlock sighs as he pulls back and regards John with fond regret.

“Damn Mycroft,” he mutters. “I have to go. I told him I was popping to the kitchen to get dessert. He’ll have half the secret service out if I don’t return soon.”

“Go then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock steals one more deep, sweet, drugging kiss, then fades back into the darkness - and John makes a mental note that he seems to do that an awful lot; the disappearing trick that leaves John confounded and wistful. And walking a bit funny. 

>>><<<


	8. Something Good

**Good Morning. SH**

John blinks at the screen of his phone and isn’t sure whether to frown or grin. It’s sweet that Sherlock can’t even wait until this evening to talk to him, but his phone also says it’s 5.43 AM, so John’s reaction could go either way at this point.

_ Hi _ , he sends back and even that much needs typing twice because his fingers will not cooperate.

**Mycroft is still here being hateful. SH**

_ It’s not even 6 o’clock. Give him coffee and a croissant and he’ll be out of your hair soon. _

**If I feed him he might decide to stay. SH**

**And is therefore inadvisable. SH**

**You could come over and beat him up again? I’d consider it a personal favour. SH**

**I could take photos. I wasn’t prepared last time. SH**

John laughs aloud and flops back into the warm hollow he’s made.

_ I was hoping to make a better impression on him - I don’t think that would send the right message.  _

**Well, keep it in mind. You don’t need to decide yet. SH**

_ Will do.  _

Now he’s awake John can’t ignore the fact that he needs to pee so he stumbles to the bathroom, not bothering with clothes or doors. He’s finishing up when he hears the chime of another incoming message. By the time he’s washed and dried his hands and returned to his room, he’s counted four more messages come in. Sherlock is clearly quite chatty this morning.

**Regarding what you said last night, I want you to know that I’m not holding you to any of it. SH**

John’s heart is suddenly a dozen times heavier than it should be. 

**Our acquaintance has been brief and I understand that what you said was in reaction to provocation by my dreadful brother. SH**

**Because we found comfort and pleasure in each other once does not oblige you to assume responsibility for my happiness or my safety. SH**

**My cage, as you called it, is indeed of my own choosing, but I cannot pretend that I would expect anybody else to do so. Some days I can barely manage it myself. SH**

**Of necessity, my life must be lived within the boundaries of this property until such times as it is deemed safe for me to leave. I have no way of knowing when or if that might be. I am, as you can see, most assuredly not what one might consider ‘boyfriend material’ - quite the contrary, in fact. SH**

John is struggling with a response. It’s much too early to be trying to parse Sherlock’s texts that seem to have taken a very serious turn suddenly - is it that he has cold feet and has decided he doesn't want to pursue a physical relationship with John? Or any relationship with him? Or is this Sherlock being noble and trying to undo the rather sweeping promises that he threw in Mycroft’s face last night? Rather uncharitably maybe, John is wondering if it is Mycroft's accusations about John being a liability that are making sense to Sherlock in the cruel light of day, particularly as he hasn’t been there to defend himself from Mycroft’s arguments. 

Should he start off gently with ‘Sherlock, you’re an idiot.’? Is he going to need to beg? Or should he go straight to the crux of the matter with ‘I think I’m falling in love with you’?

Trapped in indecision and more than a little rattled, John dials Sherlock’s number. As eloquent and carefully chosen as Sherlock’s words are, John is a man who likes a little context and the assurance of hearing someone’s voice if he’s being dumped. 

The call goes straight to the answerphone.

He disconnects and calls again with the same result.

_ Sherlock, pick up the damn call. _

_ I’m not kidding. Pick up. _

_ Please. _

**I prefer to text. SH**

Sherlock isn’t going to have to pretend to be dead for much longer; John is going to kill him.

_ I can’t do this on the phone, Sherlock. If this is over before you have even given us a chance then I want you to tell me to my face. Where are you? _

John waits. His hand gets a cramp from holding his phone so hard. He can’t believe that he’s about to lose this - something that he hadn’t been looking for or even known he wanted when he came here, but that has been intrinsically linked to the way moving to France has given him new purpose and hope.

**Look outside. SH**

John’s breath releases all at once at the chime of the message and he has to read it twice to make any sense of it. He trips his way to the bedroom window and pulls aside the thin cotton curtains. At first he can’t see any reason for the command, then Sherlock steps out from behind one of the trees and looks up at him, phone in hand.

The sun is just creeping into the walled garden but the remains of the night’s mist is still in the air. It catches the sunrise and softens everything making the morning hauntingly beautiful, but John cannot tear his eyes away from the incongruous figure on his garden beds again; Sherlock Holmes, whose face has never been more open nor looked more quietly hopeful.

So nervous is he that Sherlock won’t be there by the time he reaches the door, John grabs the first things that come to hand and pulls them on as he is running down the stairs; yesterday’s tee-shirt and jeans. He almost falls and breaks his stupid neck in his haste, but reaches the garden door and pulls it open to find Sherlock staring at him, apparently frozen. 

He looks lost to John’s eyes, as if he can’t understand what to do next. It’s more vulnerability than John has ever noted before from Sherlock, normally so unruffled and controlled. 

“Come here,” John says, and Sherlock does. He closes the distance between them, his eyes never leaving John’s face though he doesn’t stumble or trip once. He stops in front of him, too close as he often does and waits.

“Sherlock, you’re an idiot,” John murmurs and closes the negligible gap between them, sliding his arms beneath Sherlock’s coat and hugging him as hard as he dares. He lays his head against Sherlock's shoulder and can hear the reassuring thump of his heart through the skin warmed material of his shirt. 

Sherlock’s arms come around John’s shoulders, tentatively at first and then with growing confidence until they are both holding on for dear life. His cheek pressed to John’s hair, that is how they stay for some time, neither speaking or moving, just taking a moment to anchor themselves here in this loaded moment. 

The birds are singing their hearts out and in the distance John can hear the bloody cock crowing; it’s never sounded as sweet. His feet are actually beginning to go numb from standing on his stone doorstep at dawn in May with bare feet, but he can ignore it as long as Sherlock wants to hold him. 

Eventually Sherlock sighs and murmurs, “You could at least invite me in. Even idiots need tea.”

John pushes the door shut behind them and Sherlock toes off his shoes, padding further into the kitchen in his socks. John sits him down at the table and puts the kettle on. He’s almost certain that things are on their way to being sorted between them now, at least so far as their intentions are concerned, but he doesn’t want to drag Sherlock back to his bed if he has more to say first. So… tea - always a good idea but now especially as it gives them both a chance to let this as yet unnamed intention sink in.

It might take a while to fully understand the magnitude of what they have become. John certainly didn’t dream that something like this could happen to him here and now, and he guesses that Sherlock must feel equally as astonished. There are unknown obstacles to overcome and half a lifetime’s worth of things to learn about each other. This doesn’t detract from their determination in any way though.

John puts a mug in front of his guest and sits opposite him, daring to wrap his feet and ankles around Sherlock’s under the table and squeezing them when he sighs.

“I meant what I said, John. This won’t be easy.”

“I never asked for something easy.”

“I have no idea if there are people looking for me to try and kill me,” Sherlock admits. 

“I have had an entire army trying to kill me,” John counters, earning him a small, thoughtful nod.

“I’m difficult, temperamental and often insensitive,” Sherlock tells his mug. 

“And that’s on a good day,” John replies and is heartened by the way the corner of Sherlock’s mouth curls up just a little bit.  It’s breaking his heart to watch Sherlock try to sabotage his own happiness. There’s a story there, he’s sure of it, and he buries that knowledge away for another time. 

“I play the violin at ungodly hours of the night.”

“I have recurring nightmares.”  He re-tucks his ankles around Sherlock's bony ones and rubs.

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days at a time.”

“I’ve been diagnosed with depression.”

“I sometimes say terrible things without realising they are terrible,” Sherlock adds.

“I sometimes say terrible things even though I know exactly how terrible they are,” John offers, propping his chin in the palm of his hand where he leans on the table. 

That earns a tiny quirk from Sherlock’s lips again, too small to notice if you aren’t watching closely. Thankfully John is, and he thinks he could do this forever if it meant that Sherlock would give them the shot they need.

“My brother is a nosy, self-important, interfering know-it-all with a god-complex.”

“My sister is an unhappy lesbian with a drinking problem and a broken marriage who is trying to fix me.”

“My new neighbour is driving me distracted with what a smart-arse he is,” Sherlock announces, finally meeting his eyes steadily, a challenging tilt to his head.

“My new neighbour is driving me distracted with how damn gorgeous he is.”

Sherlock’s cheeks take on a definite pink tinge, but his eyes shine at the compliment. They both break the tension with sips of tea and gazes that keep catching and holding. The light is growing by the minute as the new day with all its challenges, big and small, gets underway. 

“I’ve ruined another perfectly good pair of shoes in your garden,” Sherlock mutters with something playful creeping across his face. 

“Hmm, they’re really not much use are they? I will buy you some wellies,” John offers.

Sherlock’s face is comically pained. “I don’t wear… wellies.”

“Well you’ll need them if you’re going to be in my garden on a regular basis. Just like I’ll need gloves and a hood to help with the bees.”

Sherlock huffs but doesn’t bother to hide the smile that curls his lips this time. He takes another sip of his tea then straightens. 

“Which reminds me,” he says, reaching into his coat pocket. He extracts a long, flat, wrapped item that had been folded in half to fit. Uncurling it, he places it on the table beside John and picks up his tea again with a self-satisfied expression on his face. 

“What’s this? It’s not my birthday,” John protests.

“It used to be a favourite of mine but your need it greater.”

Curiosity gets the better of him rather than wait for another clue from Sherlock. He rips off the brown paper and pulls out a well-loved paperback book.

He frowns, confused. “Astérix Le Gaulois?”

“No,” Sherlock says, wincing, “But we can work on your pronunciation... if you’re staying, that is...”

John smiles directly into Sherlock’s eyes, takes a deep pull on his tea, opens the book to page one and begins.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> The stunningly talented Khorazir has made beautiful artwork for this story. Check it out here - https://khorazir.tumblr.com/image/620122294763864064


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